Even As We're Dying
by Child of a Broken Dawn
Summary: Some people find more joy in darkness than light. A series of oneshot drabbles from the lives of Wednesday and Lucas, ranging from romantic to silly.  Title from a cut song.
1. Teach Him How To Tango

A/N: So, this is for me to get out all the plot bunnies that come calling while I'm writing "Auld Lang Syne." And to write some less angst-ridden W/L.

The title of this drabble comes from a song that was cut from the musical after the Chicago preview (in which Alice gets romantic advice from Morticia). I saw it on YouTube and thought, well, it's a shame for precious UST to go to waste. ;) More like unresolved romantic tension, though, because both parties are still underage. Anyway, this picks up where the flashback in chapter two of ALS leaves off.  
>-<p>

"There's just one problem. Er…it's kind of embarrassing."

"What?" she snapped impatiently. Did he want to dance or not?

"I- I don't know how to tango." The sheepish smile was back; Wednesday was coming to realize that it infuriated her. The Boy seemed to use it as shorthand for, "Pity me and let the subject drop because I'm endearingly awkward."

She turned away from him, flicking one dark braid over her shoulder. "Fine, then," she replied, gazing at the quicksand with supreme nonchalance.

_Come on. Use the mind I know you've got. Stop being such a puppy and __**say**__ something._

"But I would if you taught me."

The sixteen-year-old stiffened. _Something besides that._

The Boy's footsteps sounded behind her, rustling the autumn leaves that littered the muddy ground. She became uncomfortably aware of his presence, trying ferverently not to think about how close he was and how, if she turned around, he'd be even closer. How there would be, perhaps, only inches between their faces- inches easily eliminated…

_No._ She bit her lip hard, letting the sharp pain and metallic taste of blood derail her train of thought. The Boy was a friend; nothing more.

"Would you?" he asked her silent back. The question hung there, an invitation for Wednesday to let go and fall into…what, exactly?

_What, indeed?_ It was just a simple dance lesson. Hardly a declaration of love; friends probably did this sort of thing all the time.

Of course, she had very little experience in that department.

Turning to face him, she replied, "All right."


	2. Left Unsaid

A/N: I was trying to write chapter 6 of ALS, really I was. But the angst just wasn't coming. So I gave in, called up "Yakety Sax" on YouTube, and decided to give the anguished Addams-Beinecke couple a break.  
>-<p>

"What's he doing?"

"Mmf- who?"

"Your father. What's he doing in there?"

"I don't know; I'm not his keeper. That's Mother's job. Now shut up and kiss me."

"No, Di, I'm serious. Look at him!"

"…I just see my father. What are you talking about?"

"The unicycle."

"What uni- oh. That unicycle."

"And the Russian hat."

"He's had that for years, Lucas."

"But why is he wearing it now?"

"Do you know the reasons behind all the crazy things your parents do? Let me know if he gets a vuvuzela; _then_ I'll be worried."

"You mean like that vuvuzela?"

"Oh, no."

"Is- is that supposed to be 'Don't Cry For Me, Argentina?' Or am I hearing wrong?"

"No, you're hearing exactly right. Why do they have to do this now?"

"They?"

"If Mother doesn't come in wearing the Marilyn wig, we're safe."

"What about a Viking helmet?"

"Instead of the wig?"

"Well…more like on top of the wig."

"The wig _and_ the helmet."

"Yes."

"Hey, guys. Is the apocalypse coming? Because you two actually stopped trying to eat each other's faces for five minutes."

"Pugsley, so help me, if you don't go away right now-"

"Oh look, Mother and Father are doing The Dance!"

"Yes, we've noticed. Now could you please leave?"

"Let him talk, Wednesday. What's The Dance?"

"Well, whenever Father's feeling particularly frisky, he gets on the unicycle with the Russian hat…"

"I can't believe this is happening."

"…and then Mother brings in the yak dressed like Richard Nixon…"

"Wait, _while_ swinging from the chandelier?"

"And juggling the complete discography of Justin Bieber, yep."

"I don't ask for much in life. Just please let lightning strike me where I stand. Or the whole house; I'm not picky."

"It ends with Father holding mother over his shoulder and reciting haiku while she scratches his back with the tubular thing that makes duck noises."

"Make that a meteor."

"And then they kiss."

"Wow. The ending sounds kind of anti-climactic after that whole production."

"Not the way they do it."

Unable to bear it anymore, Wednesday broke out of her fiancé's arms and ran from the room, stomping upstairs and slamming her bedroom door behind her.

Lucas shot Pugsley a confused look.

"And how long have your parents had this routine worked out?"

"Since Wednesday got old enough to date."


	3. Thursday's Child

Static crackles over the screen for a moment, before blackness replaces it. A time stamp appears in one corner: 5/3/14- 10:30 AM. The picture appears as blobs of color at first, but soon focuses to show a hospital room flooded with sunlight.

Lying in the rumpled bed, a tired-looking young woman with short, dark hair is talking to someone off-camera.

"…the shades, please? It's too bright in here." She seems to finally notice whoever is holding the camera, and pinches the bridge of her nose in ill-concealed exasperation.

"Alice, you really don't have to film me."

"Nonsense, dear!" a perky, female voice says from behind the camera. "It's not every day your first child is born!"

As if on cue, the bundle of blankets in the brunette's arms stirs and gurgles indistinctly. She touches it gently, and the barest trace of a smile replaces her irritated expression. Her lips move, but the camera is too far away to catch her words.

"Have you picked a name yet?" a male voice asks from just beyond the left side of the screen.

"Eleanor, Dad." The room dims somewhat, and slightly gangly-looking young man steps into view from the right. "Eleanor Calpurnia Beinecke."

"Nell," the new mother chimes in.

"_Calpurnia_?" This from the older man, who sounds more than a little incredulous.

His son shrugs.

"Wednesday said it's what she used to want to name her first daughter. And don't blame her," he laughs, "I snuck it onto the birth certificate while she was asleep."

The mother- Wednesday- rolls her eyes and continues whispering to baby Nell.

"Well," the camerawoman says feebly, "I think it's a perfectly lovely name. Eleanor Calpurnia. Just wonderful."

The young man wanders over to the bed and gazes down at the newborn. Smiling, he reaches down to stroke her tiny face. The camera zooms in on the family: mother, father, and daughter. The moment is picture-perfect, just begging to be used in a life insurance commercial.

Suddenly, the father looks at his wife and begins to chuckle. She reaches out and hits him on the back of the head, with (if his grimace is any gauge) surprising strength for someone still recovering from childbirth.

"What's funny, Lucas?" Alice asks.

"Your daughter-in-law."

Said daughter-in-law's eyes narrow. "It's just a poem."

"Oh, a _poem_, dear?" the new grandmother trills, her voice reaching new levels of excitement. "Which one?"

The viewer gets the impression, from the look Wednesday's giving her husband, that Lucas will be sleeping on the couch for a few nights. Apparently fighting to maintain composure, she addresses her mother-in-law.

"The poem I'm named after. It's a nursery rhyme. You know, 'Monday's child is fair of face,' et cetera?"

"But…isn't Wednesday's child full of woe?" Alice's enthusiasm falters.

"The only decent option in the poem," the young woman replies, pushing a strand of hair out of her face. "My parents always said they were glad there was one good line, because Mother had to name her firstborn after a day of the week. It's an old and complicated tradition."

Her husband pours himself a glass of water from the jug on the bedside table. "Yesterday was Thursday, ironically enough. What does that mean?"

"'Thursday's child has far to go,'" she recites impassively.

"But not today," Lucas says, leaning down to kiss her cheek.

"No, not today."

The camera focuses on them still, leaning against each other and gazing at their infant daughter. And then the screen goes black.

-  
>AN: In case you were wondering, the full poem goes:

_Monday's child is fair of face.  
>Tuesday's child is full of grace.<br>Wednesday's child is full of woe.  
>Thursday's child has far to go.<br>Friday's child is loving and giving.  
>Saturday's child must work for his living.<br>And the child that's born on the Sabbath day,  
>Is fair and wise and good and gay.<em>

Charles Addams actually did pick Wednesday's name that way.


	4. Let's Not Talk About Anything Else

A/N: I know this was explained in the Chicago version of the musical, but since the Broadway version left it open-ended (as far as I know), I felt the need to provide my own explanation. Because torturing Wednesday is just too much fun. ;)  
>-<p>

It was a lovely day in Central Park. The sun was shining, the bluebirds were singing, and the flowers were practically bursting with colorful blooms. Spring had come in all its full glory.

And so, dear reader, you can tell that things were bound to go wrong.

Lucas Beinecke certainly knew it. This was the kind of day when even going to the park was a vain endeavor- she never came out on sunny days. But the morning had been so perfectly overcast that he'd been willing to try.

And now the whole day stretched ahead of him, bright and beautiful and dull.

Just when he'd finally made up his mind to leave, though, a black-clad figure raced into the clearing and flung itself into his arms.

_Maybe this day won't be so bad after all_.

Before he knew it, his lips had found hers, and her nails were digging into his neck in that way that was pain and bliss at the same time, and he was reaching out to twine one black braid around his finger-

Or rather, trying to, because his hand met only the fabric of her dress.

"Wednesday?" he mumbled against her mouth. Getting the word out proved rather difficult- she seemed to be actively trying to silence him.

"What?" she replied between very enthusiastic kisses.

"What- mmf- what happened to your hair?"

"Bunsen burner accident." Conversation was clearly not on his beloved's agenda today. In fact, given the way she- _Wow. That's new_. For a moment, Lucas' mind was pulled irretrievably back to the situation at hand. But soon, curiosity again reared its head.

_Oh, right. Answers._

With some difficulty, he broke away and held her at arm's length (trying to ignore her indignant glare). The braids were indeed missing; the ends of her hair now just brushed her collar, and it was parted on one side. The overall effect was far from unflattering, but something about her explanation didn't add up.

"Bunsen burner?" he said incredulously.

Wednesday rolled her eyes.

"_Yes_, Lucas. Surely you've heard of them." She attempted to return to his embrace, but he still held her off.

"Don't accidents with fire usually do more damage than that?"

Her expression would have made a wiser man stop talking and resume their earlier activities. But then again, a wiser man wouldn't have been dating Wednesday Addams.

"It looks great; I'm just wondering how you avoided getting hurt," he clarified.

The young woman, her glare now liable to make a tiger cringe, groaned and grabbed the front of his shirt.

"Listen. I leaned too far over the damn burner while doing an experiment and a spark caught one of my braids. I was able to put the fire out quickly, but I had to cut the other side so it matched. Got it?"

Without giving him time to respond, she pressed her mouth back to his. For a few minutes, the clearing was relatively silent. Then, another question occurred to him.

"But Wednesday, how did-"

"I don't want to talk about it. Shut up and kiss me," she growled, biting down on his lower lip and putting paid to further conversation.

It would only be four years later, around their second wedding anniversary, that she would inadvertently mention never having owned a Bunsen burner.


	5. Love Still Conquers All

A/N: *singing to the tune of "Bob the Builder"* Addams Family, do I own it? Addams Family- no, I don't!  
>-<p>

Today, for the first time in 45 years, I feel like an old man.

It must be a strange side effect of weddings. They make the couple feel indescribably beautiful, and everyone else weighed down with years and nostalgia. I imagine ours was like this for my parents, though at the time I was too preoccupied to ask.

The bride looks radiant. Her long, high-waisted dress is gray, a compromise between normal for everyone else and normal for our family- gray with a black velvet sash. A gray veil floats like sea foam over her shining hair, held in place by a rather tarnished silver coronet. It's an heirloom from my wife's side of the family, or so she claims.

"Father? It's time."

My daughter's words bring me back to Earth; the strains of the wedding march are indeed beginning to float down the hall. With one last look at her, I blink to alleviate the strange prickling at the corners of my eyes and thread her arm through mine.

The carpet leading to the back door seems to go on for miles, and with each step, memories rise unbidden.

_A tiny baby, clutching my finger in her fist with surprising strength._

_A six-year-old, happily firing her little trebuchet at the neighbors' treehouse._

_A young teenager dramatically reciting Shakespeare in her room when she thinks no-one can hear._

My little girl has become the lovely, graceful young woman on my arm. Where did 22 years go?

And it seems like no time at all before we've reached the wrought-iron trellis at one end of the cemetery, having passed the rows of whispering and sniffling relatives before I could even register them. I smile at her, trying not to blink, and move to sit beside my wife in the front row.

"How are you feeling?" she whispers.

I look at her and remember seeing her beside me at this same altar all those years ago. A few lines have appeared on her face, and her dark hair is beginning to show the tiniest streaks of gray. I know I haven't escaped evidence of the years either. But in that moment, my Wednesday looks just as she did at our wedding.

My gaze shifts to our daughter, our Nell, standing with the woman who will shortly be her wife. The officiant is speaking, but neither of them appears to hear. They stare at each other as if nothing else exists.

I smile and squeeze Wednesday's hand. "Happy and sad."


	6. Unplanned

A/N: So, as you know if you've read the latest chapter of "My Big Fat Addams Wedding," I recently watched the entire show on YouTube. It's great to finally know the dialogue that goes between the songs, and a few lines especially piqued my interest. This ficlet is inspired by some lines right before "What If?" when Wednesday and Lucas are planning their future.  
>-<p>

"So when you said 'simple,' you meant…"

"Moving from one condemned Victorian to another."

"Right. Glad we cleared that up."

The young couple regarded their new home. Now that the yellow tape and most of the window boards had been removed, its true character shone through.

A character that, in a detective novel, would have been the primary suspect.

"Disappointed?" Wednesday asked, twisting slightly in her husband's arms. "I know you were hoping for a picket fence."

He gave her a wry smile. "I'm fine, but what about your apple tree and dog named Shep?"

She groaned and rolled her eyes.

"Well, that _was_ an apple tree," she said, indicating a blasted stump on the front lawn.

"And the baby will probably want a pet at some point."

It took a few moments for her words to sink in.

"Wh- I – you- _what baby_?"

"Believe me, I'm just as shocked as you. Half the things I ate growing up should have rendered me sterile. But Addamses are very resilient."

He blinked at her.

"Am I supposed to stroke your belly and croon sweet nothings right now? Or is that later?" he asked.

"You," she replied, pushing him gently away and starting across the lawn, "are supposed to start praying for the delivery nurse."

Now Lucas looked at it properly, the crumbling mansion was really quite nice.

-  
>AN: The house, for anyone who's interested, is a wedding gift from Gomez and Morticia. All throughout the musical I wondered why Wednesday didn't mention to Lucas her family's endless supply of obscene wealth. Kind of makes the whole "Dad will cut me off" thing moot, doesn't it?


	7. Teeth

A/N: This is actually more of a ship manifesto loosely cloaked in a tiny drabble, but pretend you didn't hear that. Just a snippet of T-rating justification for an early Wednesday morning (irony unintentional).  
>-<p>

It's not BDSM; not exactly.

Lucas frequently muses on this in idle moments. Mostly early in the morning, when sunlight beyond the drawn curtains changes the bedroom from dark to dim and the black-haired ball of tangled sheets next to him snuggles closer in her sleep.

It's not BDSM so much as fire feeding fire. She's the one who holds the knife, who traces it tantalizingly across his bare chest before applying just enough pressure to break the skin. She's the one, usually, who yanks his head down or up to meet her lips. She's the one who brings him to the edge of death and asks, breathlessly, "Are you afraid?"

But when they kiss, both come away with bloody lips. When they tango, he dips her unexpectedly, stopping just before her head hits the floor. When they fence, he uses every trick she's taught him just to see her backed into a corner, flustered and indignant. And in those moments on the edge, he loves to look up into her slightly crazed eyes and tenderly whisper, "No," to strike her off-balance.

It's not about the pain. It's about _pushing_, each one teasing the other as far out of their comfort zone as possible just to see how they'll react.

And in those mornings, when the surging adrenaline and lust of the previous night has dissipated, Lucas Beineke pulls his sleeping wife closer and hopes they never manage to burn out.


	8. Million Dollar Question

**A/N:** *singing* Double the updates, double the fun- Eryn doesn't have any classes!

Yes, thanks to some scheduling kerfuffle here at my illustrious university, I have an open day ahead of me. And clearly, the right thing to do with a free day is not homework, but WxL drabbling. :D

**EDIT (February 17, 2013): **A lot about my personal headcanon has changed since I wrote this; most notably, it's no longer just mine anymore. While this is a good thing, it's also resulted in some facts changing. Ergo, if you've read this chapter before, you might notice some retcons. I tried to leave the basic plot the same, though.

* * *

><p>Lucas Beineke was facing the Inquisition.<p>

There was no torture, not yet- that would come from different quarters, if he failed to answer the question. Only one, deceptively simple question, but everything hung on his reply. An incorrect response could send him to a fate worse than death.

His inquisitor stared up at him, brown eyes wide with expectation. She twisted her hands in the pockets of her black pinafore.

"Well, Father? Where do babies come from?"

He sighed, kneeling down to meet his daughter's gaze.

"They- they come from inside the mother," he replied. It was a desperate gamble. Nell was too much like her mother to be satisfied with an incomplete answer, but he had to try.

"Oh." The six-year-old's brow wrinkled. Lucas braced himself for the inevitable.

"But how do they get inside the mother?"

He glanced up at the ceiling, spiderwebbed with cracks, and silently prayed for a chunk of it to come loose. Or for a muffled thud from anywhere else inside the house. Anything that would require immediate attention. But for once, as if mocking him, the crumbling Victorian remained silent.

There was nothing else for it. "Well, when a man and a woman- or, really it can be any two people, but only a man and a woman can make a baby- when a man and a woman love each other very much…or, sometimes when they just want to have some fun, not that it's always fun, but generally…" He trailed off.

"You know what, Nell? I think this is a question for your mother."

As he watched her walk away, brown curls bouncing, he hoped Wednesday was in a good mood.

* * *

><p>"…and then the egg is fertilized, and nine months later, the woman has a baby."<p>

Nell sat silently for a moment, swinging her little legs against the back of the garden bench.

"Did you and Father do that?" she asked finally.

Wednesday finished tying the poison ivy vine to its stake. "Yes. That's why you're here."

"Do…do you still do it?"

"Yes."

"When?"

"When you're asleep or at your grandparents' house."

The little girl lapsed into silence again, mulling over the new information. If Mother and Father did this thing called sex, and sex between a man and a woman made babies, then…

"Am I going to have a new brother or sister?" Her eyes lit up with excitement at the prospect.

Wednesday stared quietly at the poisonous vines for a minute. "Not in the immediate future," she finally replied.

"Oh." The little shoulders slumped. "But if sex makes babies, and you and Father still have sex, then…"

Her mother sighed and gathered up the gardening tools. Taking Nell by the hand, she began to lead her back inside.

"This is a conversation for another day. Let's go get you packed."

* * *

><p>Lucas stared at his daughter, openmouthed and not entirely trusting his ears.<p>

"What did you say?"

"Have fun sex," Nell repeated. She shifted her grip on Morticia's hand; the older woman, for her part, seemed to be fighting back laughter.

Wednesday bit her lip and hurriedly pressed a small suitcase into the six-year-old's other hand.

"Nell, that's not something you say to people," she muttered, pressing a kiss to her daughter's cheek. "Now go on. Tell Uncle Pugsley I said to sleep with one eye open."

As she straightened up, her mother pulled her into a one-armed embrace.

"Had a little mother-daughter chat recently?" Morticia whispered. The knowing amusement in her tone made Wednesday's fists clench.

"Maybe."

Releasing her daughter, the Addams matriarch turned to the child at her side. "Come along, Nell; Lurch is waiting in the car."

The door creaked shut behind them, and Wednesday stood sheepishly, waiting for her husband to say something. It was only a matter of time- she wanted to get the humiliation over as quickly as possible.

"You told her?"

And there it was.

She looked back at him, faintly confused. "Of course. Why wouldn't I?"

Lucas ran a hand through his hair. "For heaven's sake, Wednesday, she's only six!"

"I was five," she deadpanned.

The surprise on his face became even more ill-concealed, and he weakly said, "You were?"

"Yes."

"W-well, that was different," he spluttered. "Your parents are all over each other, constantly, even in front of company. We're not like that."

"You sent her to ask me," she retorted, closing the distance between them with a few angry steps. "What did you expect? I don't believe in keeping children ignorant."

Lucas held her gaze indignantly for a moment and then sighed, his face falling.

"You're right; I'm sorry. I should have known you wouldn't give her the stork explanation."

Wednesday blinked at him. "Stork? Where does a stork enter into it?"

Her husband took her hand, fighting valiantly not to laugh, and began to lead her toward the stairs.

"Well, there's this legend that when a mommy and a daddy want to have a baby, they send a letter to this stork…"

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** And, per information just received by review, a very happy birthday to **Gleefully Wicked**! I would send you a gift-wrapped Lucas, but they're still out of stock, so accept good wishes instead. :)


	9. One Sip

A/N: Once upon a weekend dreary/As I pondered, weak and weary/Over many a quaint and curious soundtrack of Tony-nominated-but-rudely-snubbed lore…I began to wonder what would have happened if Wednesday _had_ drunk the acrimonium. And thus, this little snippet was born. I don't own any of the characters, blah, blah, blah.  
>-<p>

Wednesday took the rusty, dented silver chalice from her mother, raised it to her lips, and drank.

For a moment, she stood silently with a strange expression on her face. The young woman looked a bit nauseous, and her parents exchanged a concerned glance.

"Wednesday…?" Lucas said slowly.

Morticia half-rose from her seat. "My dear, is something wrong?"

Another moment of silence. Then the oldest Addams child's face broke into a near-beatific smile.

"No, Mother, everything's just scrumptious!"

A gasp rose from the assembled company; Pugsley's mouth dropped open. This wasn't part of the plan.

Still beaming, Wednesday bent down and flung her arms around Lucas' neck. "In fact," she crowed, "things are _extra_ scrumptious today, because this sweet, darling, wonderful boy and I are getting married!"

As general pandemonium erupted around the table (with a concerned Wednesday trying to get everyone to "settle down and be nice"), her brother slumped in his chair. "Why didn't it work?" he muttered to himself.

Joints creaking, Grandmamma leaned towards him and grabbed his ear between two bony fingers.

"Because 'dark' is subjective, ya little wharf rat. That'll teach you to mess with my stuff!"

"But can't you change her back?"

"I can, but I ain't gonna." The old woman sat back in her chair, lips righteously pursed. Catching sight of her grandson's horrified expression, she continued, "Keep yer shorts on; it'll wear off in a few hours. In the meantime- well, you wanted to see your sister's dark side. Enjoy it."

He glanced down the polished mahogany surface to the now-tearful Wednesday.

"W-why can't we all just get alo-o-o-ong?" she sobbed. "A w-wedding is-is-is a joyful, lovely, ha-happy event!"

Even Lucas was now staring at his fiancée with the air of one regarding an accident scene on the highway. Pugsley banged his head against the cool, wooden table.

It was going to be a very long night.


	10. When I Grow Up

A/N: I promise I'm not dead, and neither are my stories. I've just run headlong into the lovely situation of having finals right on the heels of Thanksgiving Break. The next chapter of MBFAW **will** be up at some point soon, but the update schedule will be rather erratic for a while. Because after finals come Christmas Break, during which my wisdom teeth are being removed. In other words, Real Life is my scapegoat. *hides behind it*

Please to enjoy this drabble by way of apology.  
>-<p>

"Excellent, Joan! What a nice picture and story."

The teacher looked out over the eager faces of her charges as the bespectacled Joan skipped back to her seat.

"Now, who wants to go…"

She trailed off, laughing, as a tiny hand shot into the air. As expected, the hand belonged to a brown-haired boy in a blue polo shirt. The child was practically bouncing with excitement, clutching a slightly crumpled paper in one fist.

"Alright then, Lucas," the teacher said.

As he wriggled our of his seat and walked toward the blackboard, she noted with amusement the not-so-surreptitious glances from several little girls. Oh, he wasn't the first target of playground kissing games, but…

_That kid will break hearts someday_, she thought_, mark my words._

The young woman took Lucas' proffered drawing and carefully taped it to the board.

"Now Lucas," she said to the beaming young artist, "why don't you tell the class about your 'When I'm Grown Up' picture?"

Lucas faced his classmates, looking (at least to his mind) very important.

"First, there's me." He gestured to a short-haired stick figure. "I'm wearing a tie, because I'm a contractor like Daddy and you have to wear ties to the office."

Next, he indicated a figure with a skirt, eyelashes, and long, yellow squiggles of hair.

"This is my wife. She has blonde hair and blue eyes. She's real pretty and nice. She takes care of the house while I'm at work and cooks."

He went on to describe the house (a square with a triangular roof and puffing chimney) and the lawn (green and ostensibly grown with the aid of a smiling yellow sun). It was all fairly typical for a kindergartener's vision of his future, but something seemed out of place. The teacher tried to put her finger on it and failed. Until, near the end of his speech, it hit her.

"Lucas? What's that your wife's holding?"

The boy squinted at his crayon masterpiece. Finally, his eyes found the triangular object in the stick-woman's hand.

"Oh, he said, "that's a knife."

A snicker went up from the class, and the teacher's eyebrows rose.

"A knife? Why does she have a knife?"

Lucas' forehead creased with uncertainty.

"I don't know," he replied. "It just looked right."

* * *

><p>"What's that on the side?<p>

"A mouth pear."

"Oh."

The couple stared down at the yellowed sheet of paper.

"And who's…Cuz…" Lucas tilted the drawing to read his wife's long-ago handwriting.

Wednesday buried her face in her hands.

"Cousin Hieronymous," came the muffled reply. "Father's brother's son."

"Got it. Er…what's wrong with his head?" the young man asked.

She looked up and shifted position on the attic floor before saying, "Nothing's wrong with it. He just got hit on the left side of the head with a boulder when he was three."

And indeed, the stick figure had an eye patch and only half a head of spiky hair. Lucas turned to the artist.

"So, you were going to marry your cousin?"

She rolled her eyes. "Have you met my family? The incest taboo doesn't extend much beyond siblings."

"In fact," she continued, "I'm not even sure how I'm related to some of them. I think people just show up at family reunions and no-one bothers to turn them away."

Lucas chuckled. "Alright, I stand corrected."

"What about you?" Wednesday asked, cocking one eyebrow. "Who were you going to marry?"

His mind drifted back to that day in kindergarten, and he heard his six-year-old self again.

"_She has blonde hair and blue eyes. She's real pretty and nice."_

Black-haired, dark-eyed, and more likely to shoot a rabbit than pet it, his wife sat carefully just beyond a sunbeam beside him. Though he was sure his childhood self would be scandalized, he never wanted to be without her.

But then again, there had been the mysterious knife. Maybe his taste hadn't been _too_ appalling.

"You," he replied, taking her hand. "I was going to marry you."


	11. At First Sight

**A/N**: What? All the other TAF musical-verse authors are doing it!

As usual, I don't own any character, setting, or weapon involved. In my head-canon, Lucas is two years older than Wednesday, meaning that they met when he was 18 and she was 16. Don't worry; nothing illegal happened. ;)  
>-<p>

I should have turned and run the moment I saw him. But how was I to know this gangly, awkward-looking boy would be my downfall?

He didn't look so impressive, standing there between the trees with pine needles in his tousled brown hair. His white Oxford shirt bore a large dirt stain, one sleeve had been ripped loose, and he was staring with a fish-like expression at my quarry.

My quarry. Therein lay the problem. The only way to retrieve the pigeon that lay neatly pierced by my arrow would be to venture into the open. It would mean that horror of horrors- contact with an outsider.

It's worth noting, at this point, that I'd had it up to here with "normal." Four years of homeschooling couldn't erase what I'd come to realize during fifth and sixth grade: that my family was anything but normal. I hated knowing it, hated being able to see why the rest of the world looked at us and cringed, but that's not the kind of thing you can forget. And every reminder stung.

So when this boy came into sight, with his khaki pants and slight tan and confused green eyes, I considered just shooting him. Unfortunately, the pine branch chose that moment to give way under me.

The boy's head jolted up at the resulting _thump!_; before I could find a new place to hide, his eyes found mine.

Instantly, his entire body seemed to relax. "Oh, thank god. I'm kind of lost, can you…"

He trailed off as I stood and pointed my already-loaded crossbow in his direction.

"Um…or not. That's fine," he stammered, backing away.

Keeping my gaze and bow trained on him, I slowly stepped onto the path and grabbed the pigeon.

"You shot that?" he asked, eyes growing still wider. "Is hunting even legal here?"

Silently, I backed toward the cover of the trees. When I reached the edge of the comforting shadow, I lowered my weapon.

"Go away," I said, gesturing. "The city's over there."

Before I'd gone two steps toward home, however, the sound of his voice stopped me.

"Goddess of the green woods, to whom heaven and earth and sea are visible, queen of the deep, dark realm of Pluto, keep me now from your wrath and vengeance."

If he'd thrown a rabid wolf at my head, it would have been less surprising. I half-turned.

"Chaucer."

"_The Knight's Tale. _Sorry," he said with a sheepish grin completely at odds with his previous recitation, "but I couldn't think of another way to make you stay."

Slowly, I stepped back into the clearing. "Why do you want me to stay?"

He shrugged. "You hunt pigeons from a tree in Central Park. You don't look like anyone I've ever seen. And you understood my reference, which makes you doubly interesting. Who are you?"

The mention of my appearance had touched that hated sore spot. Raising my bow again, I advanced on him, backing him up against an autumn-bare oak.

"Your worst nightmare. Remember what Diana did to men? That's you if you don't leave, _now_."

I shouldered my bow, turned, and strode off across the rustling carpet of dead leaves. It really didn't matter to me whether he stayed or went. He could stand there until December and starve to death for all I cared. As long as he didn't-

A hand touched my shoulder, and I stiffened.

_-follow me._

"Are you a masochist, or just an idiot?" I ground out.

He released my shoulder. "Look. I'm a freshman in college. I'm from Ohio, and I know exactly nobody in New York."

Against my better judgment, against every brain cell but a few traitorous ones, I turned to face him again.

"And what do you want from me?" I asked, crossing my arms.

"I don't know," he sighed. "Just conversation, I guess. I haven't even talked to anyone my age here since the semester started- much less a girl. Much less a girl who knows Chaucer."

As if he could see my interest waning, he took a step towards me and said, in a slightly desperate tone, "Are you here every day?"

I raised one eyebrow. That sounded suspiciously like something my empty-headed, giggling classmates in sixth grade had talked about.

"Are you asking me if I come here often?"

"Yes. Wait- no! Not like…"

A blush flared in his cheeks as he frantically tried to backpedal. A strange feeling began in the pit of my stomach; I tried to write it off as one of Pugsley's unsuccessful poisoning attempts. After all, _nothing_ made me laugh, or even want to.

"Look." The Boy was speaking again, and I hurriedly pulled my attention back to his words. "I didn't mean to get off on the wrong foot. I'll go; I promise. But could you at least tell me your name?"

He looked so forlorn, standing there in torn and dirty clothing, lost and a bit despondent that I pitied him. Pity was acceptable, and that was all I felt for this stranger. It certainly wasn't that I liked him or anything silly like that.

_Although_, those few evil brain cells whispered_, he did quote Chaucer. And he still wanted to talk to you even after you threatened him with a crossbow._

But surely that indicated stupidity, not courage. And anyone could learn Chaucer. It didn't mean anything. Still, there was that pity.

I raised my eyes to his. "Wednesday. Wednesday Addams."

"I'm Lucas Beineke." He didn't try to shake hands, something the tiny, treacherous part of my mind noted with interest.

My husband has told me in the years since that he was wondering, at that moment, whether to ask for my phone number. I've told him that if he had, we wouldn't be here: sitting beside the massive parlor fireplace, watching our four-year-old daughter play with her pat rat.

I answered his earlier question with a curt, "I live here," and watched his eyebrows shoot up once more. We parted ways, but something told me he'd be back.

My life changed forever that October day when I was sixteen, even if I didn't know it at the time. I should have turned and run the moment I saw him- but I'm insanely glad I didn't.

-  
><strong>AN**: The quote is from "The Knight's Tale," part of the Canterbury Tales by Geoffrey Chaucer. It was written in the late 14th century. The version I've used is translated from the original Middle English; it's a prayer to Diana that's actually being made by a young woman, but with a few lines left out, it fit.


	12. Noel

**A/N:** Wow. Weeks of writer's block and now that I have a sociology essay to be proofreading, the ideas are coming thick and fast. [sigh] C'est la vie, I suppose.

Also, 13th chapter! Yay! ^_^

* * *

><p>As a child, Lucas Beineke had always associated Christmas with joy, light, and merriment. And also with complicated, pointy plastic toys made in China and taking two AA batteries (which never seemed to be included), but that part tended to get lost in the mists of nostalgia. With such a high standard for Christmases, he'd always expected them to be doubly jolly when he was grown up and had a family of his own.<p>

Shivering in a cemetery on Christmas Eve and trying to talk his wife down from a panic attack, surprisingly, had never entered his mind.

"I'm pregnant. Oh god, I'm pregnant," Wednesday said, her breath coming in white puffs. Lucas fought to keep his frustration in check.

"Yes. You've been pregnant for three months now," he reminded her calmly. "And when you told me, it didn't seem to bother you at all."

Her dark eyes remained wide and fixed on the distant trees. "It hadn't really sunk in. Lucas, in six months a tiny, helpless creature is going to be relying on me for care. Its survival will be in my hands. What about this doesn't strike you as a terrible idea?"

Much as he hated to admit it, she had a point. _No,_ he said firmly to himself; _bad Lucas. Your job is to convince her she's wrong._

The young man pulled his striped scarf tighter around his neck and sat down beside his wife. Taking her cold, pale hand in his gloved one, he said earnestly, "Di, you'll be a great mother. I'm sure of it."

A snort was the only reply. Lucas tried a different tack.

"I've seen you take care of plants. And animals; what about those thoroughbred spiders when you were little?"

This time there was only silence from the black-clad figure to his right. The former Ohioan sighed, placed a hand under his wife's chin, and turned her face to his.

"Wednesday, listen," he said earnestly. "You said that Addams blood always breeds true, right? That means our child won't just be an ordinary baby. He or she will be an Addams- and that means there's nobody better to raise him or her than you."

He laughed quietly. "Actually, if anyone will have a problem, it'll be me. Imagine me trying to keep up with a kid from your family."

At last, a smirk cracked Wednesday's shell-shocked expression, and Lucas breathed an inward sigh of relief. She raised her free hand to stroke his cheek.

"Don't worry," she said, "I'll try to keep him or her from hurting you too badly."

Lucas shot his wife a devilish smile. "That's your job."

Wednesday responded by digging her nails into his cheek. As she felt the skin barely break, she leaned forward, lips half-parted in anticipation-

-only to have her husband back away slightly. With a rueful sigh, he released her hand and stood.

"They're waiting for us," he said with a jerk of his head towards the crumbling house in the distance.

For a moment, it looked as if the young woman would protest. Then, she, too, rose from the bench. Placing her hand in the crook of his elbow, she let him lead her away from the graveyard.

"I don't know how I'm going to say this," she muttered. "Merry Christmas; I'm pregnant?"

"Sounds like a good start," Lucas replied. "I know your mother will be happy."

At that, Wednesday stopped short. "Oh no. I forgot about Mother. I'll never hear the end of it. She'll-"

Her husband mentally kicked himself. _And now we're back to square one._

-**ONE YEAR LATER**-

"They're here!"

Morticia looked up from her knitting with a bemused smile. She would never understand why, after the fuss and anxiety and acrimonium, her son was always so pleased to see the Addams-Beinekes. The 13-year-old who had disapproved so violently of their union now stood at the dining room window, watching his sister and her husband climb the front steps.

_And daughter,_ the femme fatale reminded herself, with a glance at the half-finished romper in her lap. Though still an infant, Nell was already a lovely child, and black _so_ flattered her.

The deafening sound of a foghorn shattered the silence. Lurch moved to open the door, but Pugsley was faster.

"Wednesday!" he cried, embracing his sister- who shifted the wriggling, gray bundle to her other arm and delivered a crushing blow to his stomach.

"Merry Christmas, Pugsley." She wandered into the parlor, leaving the pudgy teenager to exchange awkward glances with his brother-in-law.

"So," Lucas began, "are you having a good Christmas? What did you ask for this year?"

"The head of the jerk who got my sister pregnant."

Lucas regarded the boy calmly. "Really?" he replied. "Small world. _I_ asked for the head of the jealous brat who nearly wrecked my parents' marriage."

Pugsley smiled and tapped some ash from his cigar into a wilting houseplant. "You're learning fast."

"I have a good teacher," the young father replied, glancing at his wife. She appeared to be remarking on a mass of black yarn hanging from Morticia's knitting needles. Lucas looked back at his brother-in-law and gestured to the low steps before them.

"Shall we?"

As they entered the parlor, Lucas noted the room's festive transformation. A garland of what appeared to be taxidermied bats hung from the molding- or at least, he thought they were taxidermied until one moved. The fire crackled in the hearth, just barely low enough to avoid scorching the fur-lined stockings pinned to the mantle. There was a sixth oversized sock this year, he noticed, with _Nell_ carefully embroidered on the black velvet. And, of course, in one corner stood the Christmas tree: a mostly-bare pine hung with broken, red and green baubles and old-fashioned lights that looked like a house fire waiting to happen.

With a small, contented sigh, he added his packages to the pile of haphazardly wrapped gifts under the tree. They were among the few that weren't smoking or marked with toxic waste symbols. Straightening up, he felt something sharp against his back.

"Alright, you devil," hissed a heavily accented voice from behind him, "I have uncovered your plot. Where is the infant princess? No lies, _señor_, or I run you through!"

Lucas grinned and turned to face his father-in-law. "Wednesday's got her. I was put on pack-mule duty for the night."

"Ah, my sympathies," Gomez replied, lowering the rapier pulling him into a bone-crushing embrace. "_Felíz Navidad_, son; the merriest of Christmases to you!"

He strode towards his daughter. "_Paloma_, always so wonderful to see you. And how's the little she-devil, eh?"

Nell paused in her attempt to eat her mother's hair and turned her large, brown eyes on her grandfather. Gomez instantly melted.

"There she is!" he cooed, holding out his arms to receive the bundle of blankets. "Who's the prettiest little imp to ever stalk the earth, hm? Is it you? Is it you?"

Shaking her head fondly at her father's baby talk, Wednesday turned back to Morticia.

"So no, to answer your question, we did _not_ get her the Barbie. What kind of mother do you think I am? If Lucas hadn't stopped me, that salesgirl would have been ashes."

The older woman smiled approvingly and patted her daughter's cheek. "Well, some people are just disturbed, my dear." Suddenly, Morticia jolted up as if stung by a hornet.

"Oh no. I've just remembered that I left the yak roast in the oven. _Un moment, s'il vous plait._"

Wednesday just managed to extricate the baby from Gomez's arms in time before he rushed to his wife's side and began pressing kisses to her wrist. As she watched her parents engage in the usual token struggle, Lucas moved to stand at her side.

He slid his arm around her shoulder and pulled her close. Together, they took in the happy chaos around them.

"Merry Christmas, my Diana."

-  
><strong>AN:** Happy holidays to everyone! :)


	13. Twice Torn Asunder

**A/N**: I wasn't sure where to put this, since it's technically not a WxL story. [ducks behind a large rock] Don't kill me! But I thought it could still go here, since it does involve their relationship indirectly.

Ever wondered about the ancestors? Neither had I, until the plot bunnies intervened. I don't own any of the characters, but their names and personalities are my inventions. Enjoy.

* * *

><p>"Oh, Mandy, don't cry."<p>

"I c-can't help it!" the spectral bride wailed. "T-they were so happy and now...now..." A fresh bout of sobbing burst forth, even as Circe rubbed her back ineffectually.

Millie stubbed out her cigarette on a headstone and strode over to where the other two sat.

"Ozymandia Rain Addams, you're making a fool out of yourself. You cried when everything was fine and dandy between then, and now you're crying because they're on the outs!" She sniffed, needlessly smoothing her finger-waved hair. "In fact, I think it's **you** putting all these rotten ideas in her head."

Circe's gaze shot up. The ex-W.A.C. stood to look her flapper cousin in the eye.

"Millie," she said tightly, "you're horrible. How can you blame this on Mandy? Mandy, who wouldn't hurt a wasp! Perhaps it's **your** flippancy about love that got us into this mess."

"Oh, well, pardon me, I'm sure. God forbid anyone step on poor, sweet Mandy's toes. You know, Circe, I've always thought you seemed a titch too jazzed about-"

A burst of giggling from a nearby stand of willows cut her off.

"Why, Mr. Cain, you should know better than to talk to a lady like that!"

Millie rolled her eyes, taking a drag from yet another Lucky Strike that had appeared in her holder.

"Chastity, get your whoring fanny out here! We've got a crisis," she called towards the now-shaking trees. Mandy gave a little screan and clapped her rotting bouquet over her mouth. The offending ancestress glared down at her.

"Oh, put a sock in it, Queen Victoria. Your precious little great-niece isn't a virgin, let alone Chastity."

No sooner had her name been spoken than a pallid, translucent saloon girl emerged from behind the willows. Her feathered headpiece was askew, her lower lip pushed out in an angry pout.

"Can't a girl have some fun around here?" she asked petulantly.

"Not until love triumphs," Millie drawled in a passable impression of her grandson, Fester. "In case you haven't noticed, things are going to the dogs."

A quizzical look revealed that Chastity had not, indeed, noticed. Taking a deep breath, Circe attempted to defuse the situation.

"I believe it was while you were...um...behind Aunt LeBorgia's mausoleum with Cain. Wednesday wanted to elope, but Lucas tried to talk her out of it. Then she stormed off and he went back inside."

The dancer laughed, leaning on a couch-shaped monument. "Don't that little jane beat all! Just an hour ago, she couldn't get him unrigged fast enough! What she needs is a good, long-"

Millie cut her off. "Good grief, don't finish that sentence or Mandy might die again."

Once more, it fell on Circe to intervene as a renewed round of sobbing shook the once-flowered circlet and veil. She took the bride's hand and pulled her gently to her feet.

"Listen," she said firmly; "it does us no good to fight amongst ourselves. We must work together to overcome these obstacles and prevail."

"She's making history/ Working for victory..." the flapper sang under her breath in a mocking tone. Circe shot her a dirty look, but continued.

"Why don't we focus on someone else for a while? What about Morticia?"

The ancestresses eyed each other quietly. Only the distant hoot of an owl broke the moonlit silence.

"Alright," their de facto leader finally said, "I'll take that as agreement. Now, has anyone seen Silence?"

Right on cue, a fifth ghost emerged soundlessly from the edge of the nearby wood. Though she wore Native American garb, long, fair braids belied her deerskin dress.

"I've been standing here all along, you unobservant harridans," she said in the language of the Seneca.

Chastity sighed. "Silence, darlin', we all know you speak English. Please? We'd like to know what you're saying."

"But I choose to speak the language of my true people." More Seneca.

"Silence, darling," Millie aped, "we all know you **are** English."

Silence shot back, in her chosen tongue, "Only by an accident of birth."

The flapper and settler-turned-Seneca eyed each other scornfully. But as they seemed about to come to blows, Mandy surprised everyone by stepping between them.

"Circe's right. T-this bickering accomplishes nothing. If we're going to go tend to Morticia, let's be off."

Still glaring, Millie and Silence backed away from each other. The late Addamses seemed to shimmer for a moment- and then vanished.

All was once again quiet in the graveyard. Animals that had fled from the noise of the fight began to creep back into the bare trees. But about a minute later, a distinctly masculine cry went up from the opposite corner of the cemetery.

"She's so lovely! Why can't she see that I'm the one to wipe away her tears once and for all?"

"Oh, for Pete's sake, Quincey, cut it out!"

It was going to be a very long night.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** Okay, time for some historical clarification. First, a brief dramatis personae:

**Silence Addams** (1740-1778; the Indian)

**Chastity Addams** (1852-1873; the Saloon Girl)

**Ozymandia "Mandy" Addams** (1880-1903; the Bride)

**Millicent "Millie" Addams **(1908-1928; the Flapper)

**Circe Addams** (1907-1948; the World War II Lady)

Male ancestors appearing or mentioned are Cain (The Pilgrim), Quincey (The Banker), and, snapping at Quincey, Merlin (The WWII Soldier).

The term "W.A.C." refers to a member of the Women's Army Corps- basically the women's branch of the U.S. military during World War II. The story of the WAC is both very interesting and too long for an already tl;dr author's note; Google it if you get the chance.

"Jane" is a slang term from the American Old West meaning "woman."


	14. Undercover

**A/N:** While watching Addams Family Values yesterday, I started wondering: what happened at Chippewa between the Harmony Hut and the play? Wednesday must have continued acting normal, or the counselors wouldn't have trusted her as much as they clearly did.

And then the plot bunnies attacked. For those of you who've been keeping up with my other two TAF stories, this drabble is semi-AU (because, in those, Lucas didn't know about Chippewa until Wednesday told him).

* * *

><p>"Hi! Do you mind if we sit here?"<p>

The voice was agressively cheerful and, to my surprise, female. I looked up as the babble of conversation around me fell silent. Christopher leaned across the motorcycle magazine open on the table between us to whisper, "That's the girl Michelle told me about. The weird one."

An unusually pale girl with long, black braids stood at the head of the table, grinning widely and flanked by two boys. I shot Chris a disbelieving look. Apart from her coloring- and the overwhelming smell of sunscreen that surrounded her- she could have been any of the orange-and-khaki-clad girls now filling the dining hall with giggles and chatter. I dimly recognized the bespectacled boy in the plaid shirt from my woodworking group, but "the weird one" and the other, pudgy boy were unfamiliar.

The girl stood like a statue, her smile undimmed. Honestly, it was a bit unnerving. Finally, Mark cleared his throat.

"Um...yeah. No. Sure." He gestured to the mostly empty end of one wooden bench.

The trio sat down, their leader (_why did I think that?_) chirping a "Thanks!" and turning the full force of her glee on Mark for a moment. It was probably the only time I'd seen him flinch.

After a few minutes, our comparison of Yamahas and Harleys picked up again; the debate became more and more intense, until Chris was gesturing so violently with his fork that baked bean sauce flew in all directions. I tried to resume my adamant Yamaha defense, which, until five minutes ago, had seemed vitally important. But for some reason, the conversation at the end of the table kept distracting me.

"We got a package from home," the girl was saying as she speared a French fry. The fat boy blinked at her in surprise.

"We did?"

Rolling her eyes, she glanced quickly around the room and whispered something in his ear. I could almost see comprehension light up his face.

"Oh yeah!" he said, nodding slowly. "_That_ package!"

The boy with the glasses- Joel, I suddenly remembered- leaned forward. "Does it have..._cookies_?" he asked furtively, with an odd emphasis on the last word.

I didn't know how it was possible for that gleaming smile to get any wider, but it somehow did. "Joel," the brunette said with a giggle, "you're acting awfully strange lately."

Joel abruptly jerked upright as if pulled by a string, and answered her grin with a tentative smile of his own. "S-sorry," he replied; "you know how much I love sweets."

"Of course it has cookies! You know Moth- _Mom_ always sends some in her packages!"

"Oh, so it's a package from your mom?"

"Yep! Hey, you know what? We should share the cookies with everyone else," the girl's brother interjected. "Tonight, after taps."

Their conversation continued, sounding completely ordinary- and yet, suspicious. Something was off here, but I couldn't put my finger on it. The trio's collective demeanor was like...

_Like spies talking in code._

But that was silly. What reason would anyone have to talk in code at summer camp? _Get a grip, Lucas,_ I chided myself, taking another bite of my sloppy joe. I resolutely turned back to my friends, who were now arguing over whether Chris should have to pay for laundering Jim's sauce-stained shirt. Soon, somebody mentioned the canoeing test later today, and all thoughts of code and strange kids were driven out of my mind.

When the plantation bell outside began to ring, I took my empty tray and joined the crush of people moving towards the dishwashers' window. Or, at least, that's what should have happened. Instead, I was too busy examining a glossy photo of a red Honda in the magazine to watch where I was going, and-

"Oof!"

Someone collided with me; I dropped the tray, a ketchup-streaked plate landing flat against the orange polo shirt of the "weird" girl from earlier.

I smiled awkwardly. "Um, sorry about that. Here, let me...help..."

The look she gave me killed any further thoughts of speech. Nothing less like her earlier (usual?) smile could have been imagined. It was a look that promised a slow, painful death to anyone it fell upon. So why did something inside me suddenly relax?

I stumbled backward a few steps, which seemed to bring the girl back to reality. The grin returned, snapping into place like a hastily-remembered mask, and she pulled a few napkins from a nearby dispenser.

"It's fine. No harm done," she said, wiping off the red goop. "Have a super day!"

And with that, she vanished into the crowd.

* * *

><p>"That was you?"<p>

"_That_ was _you_?"

Wednesday pulled back slightly in my arms, rare shock clear in her dark eyes. To her credit, she didn't miss a beat, but continued revolving with me to the band's slow waltz. But a storm of whispers still began among the crowd of guests, because I couldn't help laughing.

Even after leaving camp a week early with chicken pox, I'd wondered what had become of that girl. And now, nine years later, we were married.

"Hey," I murmured, leaning down so that my lips brushed her ear, "stranger things have happened."

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** I haven't written much from Lucas' POV, so I hope he's in-character. The idea of him having been at Chippewa was too good to pass up.

Some news! Thing the First: I saw the touring production of TAFM. Um...let's just go with "no comment." I actually do have comments, three handwritten pages of them, but it would be very much tl;dr (just ask **Gleefully Wicked**, who has the patience of a saint).

Thing the Second: The plan is to post a new chapter of My Big, Fat, Addams Wedding tomorrow, as a Twelfth Night gift. In case you're scratching your head, Twelft Night is a holiday celebrating the last night of Christmas- or, in my case, an excuse to make a cake and bully my parents into leaving the decorations up past New Year's. :)


	15. Confirmation

**A/N:** This one has a bit of required viewing if you haven't seen the Chicago version of TAFM. YouTube search "Addams Family Clandango"- it was the opening number that "When You're An Addams" replaced and is the basis for this story. I figured it was also what "confirmation" referred to in Morticia's conversation with Alice about the family photos.

I only own the chihuahua, whose name is Fifi. Poor Fifi.

* * *

><p>"<em>And that's Wednesday at her confirmation."<em>

"_What's that she's holding?"_

"_A crossbow."_

"_No, that other thing, with the arrow in it."_

"_Somebody's dog..."_

-The Addams Family Musical (Broadway Version)

* * *

><p>You don't belong here.<p>

Of all nights, of all times and places, you should not be in my life right now. Tonight is for being certain; tonight I know exactly who I am and where my life is going. This is a private party. And yet, in the form of typed words on a tiny screen, you've managed to butt in.

**Happy birthday! I love you.**

My grip on the cell phone tightens. Its little cursor blinks in the "reply" box, taunting me. But what can I say? That, just for one night, I wanted to forget you existed?

The wind shifts for a moment, and faint sounds of laughter reach me from the cemetery proper. I glance over at my family, talking with a large group of semi-translucent ancestors. What began as a solemn ceremony has degenerated into a birthday party like any other, complete with a large, gray layer cake.

Minutes ago, when I blew out the eighteen candles, things couldn't have been better. Everything had gone off without a hitch; furthermore, I was an adult and no longer subject to my mother's whims (in theory). And then my damn phone had started vibrating.

Which brings us here, Lucas. To me standing under a willow tree, staring at your text message. I hate you sometimes. No, not you, not exactly. What you've done to me.

Before you, I never doubted myself. The adolescent identity crisis most children go through was something that happened to other people. My personal status quo had remained unchanged since birth, and I intended to keep it that way. There was nothing the "normal" world could offer me.

And then you abruptly proved that wrong.

The small, black device in my hand vibrates again, jolting me back to the present. It's another message from you.

**Is everything okay? Am I interrupting something?**

I stifle a laugh (See? Do you see what you've done to me?), and my fingers fly across the touch-screen.

**Family party. I love you, too.**

"Family party." Well, that's one way of putting it; I'm not sure how I'll explain this to you. Then again, do I really have to? I push back a few windblown strands of hair- and groan, remembering.

_Unfortunately, yes, I will have to explain._ For the first time, I wish this ritual hadn't left any physical evidence. Because you'll notice my hair, of course, since you're not blind. And then will come the awkward questions; you barging yet again into a place where you don't belong.

A place where I hope **I** still belong.

"Wednesday, _come on!_ Mother and Father are waiting to cut the cake!"

At the sound of Pugsley's voice, I slip the phone back in my pocket and push away thoughts of you. Tonight, I'm going to forget about you and the disturbing way you make me feel. None of that has a place here.

I turn on my heel and walk back towards my family, the family I've just confirmed myself a part of. Tonight, they are all that matters. Tonight, you can go hang- and I can pretend the thought doesn't cause the pit of my stomach to drop nauseatingly.

With out of sight and mind, I manage to survive the night. Unfortunately, a stray chihuahua that happens to be nearby when the phone vibrates a third time is not so lucky.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** This can be a prequel to the earlier chapter, "Let's Not Talk About Anything Else" if you like. Hope you enjoyed it!


	16. Get A Room

**A/N:** This one kind of pushes the T rating to its limits, but there's really nothing graphic. My sister wished aloud that the tenant of the apartment below hers would take his girlfriend to a hotel room so she could sleep, and this is where my mind went. ^_^"

I own Brian and Lucy, for whatever that's worth, but no-one else.

* * *

><p>"Brian...Brian!"<p>

"Oh, Lucy..."

A scream, high and piercing, echoed through the apartment building. Brian Stephenson sighed heavily and let himself fall to the bed beside his latest one-night stand.

"I'm going to kill them. I really am," he muttered under his breath. Lucy propped herself up on one elbow, green eyes wide.

"Brian? What was that?" she asked breathlessly.

He sat up and looked down at her. "The loser upstairs has a girlfriend who just turned legal. For like a week, they've-"

"Pull it _tighter_!"

The buxom blonde stared at the ceiling, her eyebrows rising in shock. "What..." she began, but trailed off, listening to the increasingly strange sounds from above. Brian closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Look, this is tame. Two nights ago, it sounded like someone was throwing knives at the wall."

Lucy shot him a disbelieving look. "Lots of people do, you know, target practice, Brian."

"Not with those kind of noises," he said, snorting.

For a few seconds, the silence was only interrupted by moans and occasional shrieks from the upstairs apartment. But after one particularly ominous _crack!_, Brian shoved back the covers and stood. As the college quarterback groped around for his pants, Lucy scooted awkwardly to the edge of the bed.

"Hey! Where are you going?"

"Upstairs," came the curt reply. "Try and get those weirdos to be considerate."

* * *

><p>To his surprise, Apartment B-12's door opened at the third knock. So abruptly, in fact, that his fist nearly struck a tall, skinny young man in a rumpled bathrobe.<p>

"Can I help you?" the tenant asked, with an expression that said he'd like nothing less.

_**This**__ is the guy?_ But Brian was a man on a mission; pushing his thoughts aside, he attempted his best "don't mess with me" expression.

"Yeah. Would it kill you and your kinky-ass girlfriend to...get a..."

Brian's eyes traced the slow trickle of blood down the exposed skin of the man's chest, and the speech he'd rehearsed in the stairwell died on his lips. B-12 Guy, seeming to notice his gaze, looked down at himself.

"Um. You're- you're bleeding," Brian stammered. The neighbor slowly looked back up, a slight, odd smile on his face.

"Yes, I'm bleeding. And hey, if it's not too much trouble, could you let me get back to that? My girlfriend just got a broadsword by mail-order, and," -he leaned forward slightly and winked at Brian- "you know how women are with new toys."

For once in his life, the quarterback was honestly speechless. He began to back away, all thoughts of criticism replaced by the impulse to flee, but stopped when another figure appeared in the doorway of B-12.

"Lucas, what's going on?"

_Oh, you've got to be kidding me_. The guy, fine, he'd believe almost anything of his own gender, but **this**? Brian almost laughed. The woman now standing beside- Lucas?- was about average height and slender, with large, heavy-lidded eyes. Her dark, chin-length hair was considerably mussed; combined with a black silk robe, the overall picture was one of a young woman he'd have tried to take home any night.

Until, that is, he noticed two important things. One, that angry red marks circled her pale wrists. And two, that she was giving him a look he usually associated with opposing linebackers.

Lucas turned to look at her. "Wednesday, this is my downstairs neighbor, Brian Stephenson." He faced Brian again. "Brian, this is Wednesday Addams, my- what was it? Oh, right: 'kinky-ass' girlfriend."

"_What_?"

And it was at that moment that Brian noticed Thing Three: something long and glinting around which the girl's fingers now tightened until her knuckles went red. The bit of the conversation concerning broadswords suddenly echoed loudly in his mind.

"Um, you know what?" he stammered, backing towards the stairs, "Forget it. Sorry to bother you." Groping frantically at the door behind him, Brian finally found the handle, yanked it, and was gone.

Lucas walked back into the apartment and shut the door behind him.

"Di, you're scaring the neighbors again."

Wednesday ran an experimental thumb along the edge of the sword. "Care to scare them some more?"

"It's like you read my mind," he replied with a grin.

For Brian and Lucy, it was a very long night.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** Just in case anyone was wondering, updates are only this frequent because:

A. I'm still on winter break, and  
>B. I'd forgotten just how little there is to do in my hometown.<p>

In two weeks, I will resume having a life. Until then... *pets MS Word lovingly*


	17. Idiomatic

**A/N:** Well, college has resumed, with all its various commitments, scheduling issues, and homework burdens. But in a strange way, I'm glad to be back.

There will be more MBFAW updates, I promise! This is just a tiny drabble to let you all know that I'm not dead. Partially inspired by several Internet articles and the excellent book Paper Towns, by John Green. Sadly, I still do not own either of these characters.

* * *

><p>"You're a manic pixie dream girl."<p>

"...who are you and what have you done with my husband?"

It was, in most respects, a perfectly ordinary Friday night in the Addams-Beineke household. A roaring fire bathed the parlor in flickering light; that the flames remained behind the fire screen still surprised Lucas, given the height to which the blaze had been built. The young man was reading _Time_ magazine while his wife, sitting on the moldering sofa, pored over the writings of Shan Yu.

Or rather, that had been the scene until a moment ago. Now, Wednesday was staring in horror at Lucas, who had looked up from the magazine with a slightly amused look.

"No, really," he continued. "I've just been reading this article, and you're a classic manic pixie dream girl."

Her mouth opened and closed a few times, but no sound came out. Finally, she stood and lunged for the shelf that held the phone book.

"What are you doing?" Lucas asked as she began rifling frantically through the pages.

"Looking up divorce lawyers."

He rolled his eyes, still smiling in that way that drove his wife crazy (-ier). "Di, let me explain."

"You had better," she said, looking up from the Yellow Pages to glare daggers at him.

Lucas glanced back at the page. "It says here that the manic pixie dream girl is a fictional archetype, a woman who comes along and pulls an introverted man out of his boring life by being quirky and adventurous. Q.E.D-" he looked up at the still-glaring Wednesday- "manic pixie dream girl."

His wife was silent for a moment, staring out the cracked window at the accumulating snow beyond. When she at last spoke, it was with the tone of someone trying very hard not to scream.

"That's either a lovely compliment or a grave insult, and either way, if you call me a- a- _manic pixie dream girl_ one more time, I will rip out your vocal cords and strangle you with them."

"Alright," he replied, folding the magazine over the arm of his chair, "but you have to admit that it's true."

A quiet snort from the direction of the window.

"Well, it is. Remember how I was before I met you?"

"Remember how you still are around everybody _but_ me?"

He made a vague noise of protest. "Give me some credit. What about your family?"

"I'll grant you Pugsley," she said wryly, wandering over to where he sat. The ancient armchair was torn in several places (a consequence of having come from the Addams nursery), and Wednesday idly began to pick fluff from a rip in the back.

"Fine," Lucas sighed.

She stared down at him. It was ludicrous, really. His life hadn't been that boring before they met- after all, he'd defied his parents' wished and gone to a New York college to major in English. If either of their lives had been dull, it was-

No. No, she couldn't say that in all honesty. Her life may have been a bit..._narrow_, but it had never been uninteresting.

_But maybe there _was_ something missing_.

As Wednesday touched his cheek, she felt Lucas relax slightly. The danger, it seemed, had passed. Suddenly, however, she grabbed his collar and yanked him up until his ear was level with her lips.

With a faint smirk, she whispered, "It takes one to know one, Mr. Pixie."

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** For those who are interested, more information on the manic pixie dream girl phenomenon can be found on the Internet- just do a Google search. See also: almost any character played by Zooey Deschanel. Though she may fill the same role in a minor, implied capacity, Wednesday's not nearly as one-dimensional as the average MPDG (not to mention, she's a more major character than Lucas).


	18. It's An Addams

**A/N:** The entire conversation that led to this drabble would take too long to recount; suffice to say that it involves the name "Fredward" and the other party was **Gleefully Wicked**. And it's thanks to her that the bit with the IV pole made it into the final version. :)

Enjoy, and I still don't own any characters besides Nell.

* * *

><p>Sara had been an emergency room receptionist for ten years. During that time, she'd seen more pain and suffering than most humans ever would- or ever hoped to. Patients who came in looking half-crazed from agony or fear were nothing new to her.<p>

But the disheveled young man who now stood on the other side of the desk took it to a whole new level.

"Sir," she said, trying to keep her voice as soothing as possible, "could you please say that again, slowly?"

"My hand is broken, my car is half-totaled in the parking lot, and my wife is in labor."

Sara blinked, grabbed a form, and began filling it out. "We'll get your wife back to the maternity ward as soon as possible, but where do your hand and car figure into it?"

The man ran a hand through his already messy brown hair and sighed. "You haven't met my wife yet."

* * *

><p>"You can squeeze my hand if you want."<p>

"I already did, hence the cast."

"And if you need to shout that you hate me and I did this to you, that's fine, too."

Wednesday glanced at Lucas from her half-reclining position on the hospital bed. Her calm unnerved the father-to-be somewhat- weren't women in labor supposed to show even the slightest sign of pain?

"Lucas, it's obvious to even the most moronic observer that you did this to me. And why would I hate you?" she replied. Suddenly, her knuckles whitened on the bed's railings.

"Another contraction?" he asked anxiously.

For a moment, she didn't reply. Her eyes remained focused on the opposite wall, and he heard plastic splintering under her grip. Then, she spoke in a tone so level as to sound almost rehearsed.

"Lucas Matthew Beineke, I am going to rip your genitals off and feed them to you."

* * *

><p>Gomez practically leapt off the vinyl-covered sofa when his son-in-law emerged from the delivery room. Holding out a hand, Lucas managed to stave off the Castillian's exclamation until the door was safely closed.<p>

"I am so sorry! We'd have been here sooner, but Morticia and I were visiting friends across town and didn't get home until-"

"I know," Lucas interjected. Pugsley had answered the phone when he'd attempted to call the Addamses; the memory of the conversation still made him cringe slightly.

_"Hello?"_

_"Pugsley? It's Lucas; I need to talk to your parents."_

_"Both at once? We only have one phone. Sorry. Bye."_

_"Don't hang up! Look, could you just call one of them to the phone, please?"_

_"Which one?"_

_"I don't care, either, just do it quickly!"_

_"What's the big hurry? Wednesday finally realize you're not worth keeping alive?"_

_"No, you little- she's in labor, okay? I just thought your parents might want to be present for the birth of their grandchild!"_

_Silence on the other end. After a few seconds, Pugsley's voice echoed once more down the line._

_"You got my sister pregnant."_

_"...yes, obviously, but you already knew that. Now could you please put Morticia or Gomez on?"_

_"I can't believe you got my sister pregnant."_

_"Okay, never mind. Just tell your parents that we're at the Hospital of the University of Pennsylvania, in room-" A brief pause, and Lucas' voice grew temporarily distant- "13. Huh, I didn't notice that before. Does stuff like this always happen?"_

_"I'm going to rip your lungs out."_

_"Fine, but before you do that, could you please, _please_ tell your parents what's going on?"_

The would-be murderer now sat between his parents, scowling furiously at his brother-in-law. Furiously and impotently, thanks to the gleaming handcuffs binding his left wrist to the metal couch frame. Lucas made a mental note to thank Morticia; his mother-in-law knew the danger of underestimating her son.

As if reading his thoughts, the statuesque woman rose from the couch and approached him. "How long?"

She didn't need to elaborate. "About ten hours. The doctor says it shouldn't be much longer now." He glanced down a bit sheepishly and added, "Or that's what she said the last time she was allowed in the room."

"Allowed?" Morticia asked, raising one eyebrow.

"Well, somehow Wednesday managed to smuggle in a nail gun…"

* * *

><p>It hurt. She'd be lying to herself if she said it didn't.<p>

And yes, supposedly the ordeal was almost over, and yes, she usually enjoyed pain. Morticia had sat her down for a Talk about three months ago, covering the finer points of childbirth. The general gist seemed to be that the birthing process was one of the most enjoyable and rewarding experience of an Addams woman's life- because it hurt like nothing else, and afterwards you (presumably) had a sweet, darling little bundle of terror. There had been an undertone that to bear a child with anything less than perfect tranquility was a minor blight on the family name.

_But given the choice between doing this again and watching "Flipper" on DVD…_ Computer-animated dolphins had never seemed so appealing.

The hospital bed didn't have railings anymore, but she hadn't cried out once. Granted, the threats to Lucas' life and physical well-being had become more graphic and imaginative with each passing hour, but her voice had remained even the whole time.

Now, time and space seemed to blur into an agony like none she'd ever experienced. And all she could think was, _If I scream this close to the end_…

Someone must have let the doctor back in, because a familiar and obnoxious female voice was needlessly telling her to push. And Lucas, too, seemed to be present, or whose hand was she pulverizing under her grip? But for a moment, she was utterly alone.

It hurt; god, it hurt- and then it didn't.

An unearthly screech broke the silence of the too-white hospital room.

* * *

><p>"Make sure the doctor saves the caul."<p>

Lucas blinked at his wife. Dangerous as it was to argue with a woman who'd recently given birth, he couldn't believe what she'd just said.

"Di," he replied in the gentlest tone possible, "caul births are something like 1 out of every 80,000. I know you were hoping for it, but the statistical probability is-"

"Ahem."

Lucas turned to see the doctor at his side, holding a seemingly ordinary sheet of paper. On closer inspection, however, a roughly circular mass of brittle-looking yellow tissue was stuck to its surface.

"Some hospitals don't save these, but they're so rare that it's our policy. And many parents like to have them as keepsakes," she said, and handed the paper to Lucas before walking away- probably to take the rest of the night off.

The new father glanced at his wife, passing her the paper with a look of surprise as total as her expression of smugness.

"Statistics have to come from somewhere," she said.

* * *

><p>Wednesday leaned back against the pillows and regarded the newborn in her arms.<p>

"What should we call her?"

Lucas laughed quietly. "Honestly, Di, I never thought this far ahead in life. Do you have any ideas?"

His wife raised a questioning eyebrow. When he waved his hand expectantly, she said, "Well, I told Mother I was going to name my firstborn daughter Calpurnia."

He blinked.

"But," she continued, "that was when I was eight and wanted to marry my cousin Flinge. Somehow I don't think it'd go over too well with your family."

They lapsed into silence again, staring at their daughter- who, for her part, seemed content to gum a corner of her dove-gray blanket.

"My grandmother was named Dolores," Lucas volunteered. Judging by the sharp _whack_ as an IV pole connected with his head, it was the wrong thing to say. "But I never much liked the name."

To his relief, the "are-you-so-stupid-that-I-must-personally-exterminate-you?" look disappeared. It was, after all, only amusing when aimed at others.

After a moment's thought, he spoke again.

"But _her_ mother's name was Eleanor."

"Eleanor." Wednesday pondered a moment, appearing to turn the name over in her mind. She gently stroked the baby's cheek with one pallid finger.

"I like it," she announced at last. Lucas smiled wordlessly and pressed the nurse's call button.

* * *

><p>"Beg pardon?"<p>

"Eleanor Calpurnia Beineke," Lucas repeated. The look on the plump, red-haired nurse's face remained disbelieving. As he shrugged and began scribbling on the form, that same disbelief was mirrored in the new mother's expression.

"But...your parents…" she began. Her husband cut her off.

"Di, if I was worried about what they thought, I wouldn't have married you."

A tiny smile barely tilted the corners of her lips. Then, with a strength that startled both the nurse and Wednesday herself, she yanked Lucas' face down to hers and kissed him.

They broke apart after several seconds (during which time the flustered nurse had excused himself) and sat together, watching their newborn daughter sleep.

Suddenly, Wednesday reached up and removed the little vole-skull barrette from her hair. She gently slid it into the child's wispy brown curls.

"Welcome to the family, Nell."

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** The bit where Nell receives her name is actually the first thing I ever wrote for this fandom; it's been gathering dust in a notebook for about four months now. When I sat down to write this, it seemed like the right time for it to see the light of day (or rather, the Internet).

A caul is a membrane over an infant's head and face, formed by part of the amniotic sac. It is removed immediately after birth and usually preserved for the parents to keep. According to legend, people born with a caul will be precognitive, unusually lucky, or able to see ghosts- I'm going with the last one for the purposes of this story.


	19. The Storm Comes

**A/N:** At the advice of A Certain Person (you know who you are), I recently got into Doctor Who. The resulting distraction, emotional roller coaster ride, and bizarre story ideas have been insane- and, of course, totally worth it. :) This little bit of crack-fluff happened when I decided to put our deranged heroine through the same thing. Pulled in a new direction, indeed.

* * *

><p>It was 3:00 AM on a Saturday, and Lucas Beineke had just been struck in the head by a crumpled-up tissue. Several, actually, in quick succession, all thrown with extremely precise aim from the overstuffed sofa in front of the television.<p>

The 20-year-old rubbed the back of his head, more out of reflex than pain. "What was that for?"

The sofa didn't reply.

"Look," he continued, "if I can't walk through my own apartment without being bombarded by Kleenex, I get to know why."

Still no response, but the sofa's occupant shifted position slightly and attempted to hide a sniff.

Lucas sighed. All night not a word, and now this. If he didn't know better, he'd think his fiancée had suffered a mental breakdown; sitting silently in front of the screen for hours wasn't like her. But she was sick, after all; infected with a disease he knew all too well.

Against his better judgment, he slowly approached the olive-colored couch. "Di? Are you okay?"

Soon he was close enough to make out a figure huddled against the cushions, its knees drawn up to its chest. Finally the figure spoke.

"Do you know what those tissues were?"

"No," he replied, "but I have the feeling you're about to tell me."

"Those tissues were your legacy, Lucas." The young woman on the sofa turned to face him at last; even in the flickering light from the DVD menu on the screen, he could tell that her brown eyes were puffy and red-rimmed.

"I _never_ cry. Not at weddings, not at funerals, not even when walking past a toy store full of Barbies," she said. There was a strange undertone to her words that almost sounded like...uncertainty. But it couldn't be; Wednesday Addams was never uncertain- or so Lucas thought.

"But," she went on, wadding up another tissue in her fist, "this...this _TV show_ has made me go through half a box of tissues." A moment later, the ball of paper bounced off Lucas' forehead and joined its fellows on the carpet.

Raising one eyebrow, he asked, "And you're throwing those tissues at me because…?"

"Because this is your fault."

_God help me if I ever get her pregnant_. He quickly shook his head, trying to put the thought aside. Now was neither the time nor the place. Doing his best to look sympathetic, the poet knelt down and leaned on one threadbare arm of the sofa. He stared at the television, which was now playing a rousing instrumental theme as bands of reddish light swirled around episode titles. One title was highlighted by yellow brackets: "Doomsday."

_Oh no._

Lucas glanced at Wednesday. Trying to sound casual, he said, "So, you're a Rose fan, too?"

But she wouldn't be put off. "I can't believe I'm crying over a TV show. Do you know how embarrassing this is?"

"Wednes," he said calmly, "I cried, too."

She just blinked at him, distracted for the first time since the tissue bombardment had begun.

Running a hand through his hair, Lucas went on. "Yes, men aren't supposed to admit this kind of thing, but it's true. I just thanked god that John wasn't home; he'd have been all over me."

Wednesday looked away. For a moment, she gazed silently at the screen as the soundtrack started its dozenth loop of the same song. Then she picked up the remote and flicked a switch; the screen went black and quiet.

With a small sigh of relief, Lucas began to pick up the fallen tissues- only to have another one hit the small of his back. Jolting upright, he noticed the black-haired girl watching him over the back of the sofa, a wry smile on her tear-stained face. When he began to protest, she rose from the cushions and started for the hall.

"Where are you going?"

"To get the next season," came the reply. "Sit down."

"What? I have to go to bed; some friends and I are meeting for brunch tomorrow."

There was no answer, but she was back a moment later, holding a DVD case. David Tennant gazed enigmatically at Lucas from the glossy cover, and he had the sinking feeling he was going to get very little sleep that night.

Wednesday began fiddling with the DVD player. "You created a monster, Lucas- and now you have to live with the consequences."

But a few minutes later, watching the adventures of the Time Lord with his fiancée snuggled- though she'd never admit it- against him, the young man had to admit that some things were worth losing sleep for.


	20. Sick Day

**A/N:** There's some kind of cold going around campus (which I'm not-so-affectionately calling The Plague), and I caught it. So, being the sadistic writer I am, I decided to also inflict it on my favorite heroine. Poor Lucas.

* * *

><p><strong>Lucas, get in here. -W<strong>

_Not again._ Lucas Beineke rubbed his forehead and groaned, slumping against the wall of the upstairs hallway. A chunk of plaster crumbled under his weight, but he ignored it.

Movies always portrayed tending a sick wife as somehow cute. The ailing woman, usually a blonde, propped against several pillows and sniffling quietly while her husband brought her chicken soup and suffered through chick flicks. Though he'd never understood how the inevitable snuggling sessions didn't lead to the husband getting sick, it always seemed easy enough. Maybe even enjoyable.

Sick Wednesday was turning out to be an entirely different matter.

"You know," he called down the hall, "you can just call for me. I'm maybe six feet away." A moment later, his phone buzzed again.

**Hurts my throat too much. Get in here. -W**

With a sigh, he headed for the bedroom door, praying she wouldn't shoot at him this time. Mood swings didn't even begin to cover it.

Lucas stepped cautiously into their room, and was struck again by how little the situation resembled that in movies. If he was completely honest with himself, Wednesday looked...well, like a woman with a bad cold. Her nose and cheeks were tinged with pink (with a similar effect as a dramatic flush would have on someone less pale), her hair was a mess, and she glared out at him from the pile of blankets with half-lidded, watery eyes.

"Yes?"

"I'm out of tissues," she croaked. As if to illustrate the point, the floor around the bed was indeed littered with stiff balls of crumpled paper.

Grabbing the trash can from its usual place near the door, he walked over to the bed and placed it within arm's reach. "There. And I'll get you another box."

After rummaging around in the cabinet under the bathroom sink, he finally located a rather dusty box of tissues. She'd been going through them at an alarming rate the past few days; most of the house supply had been ransacked. He dreaded what would happen when they ran out entirely.

The young man closed the bathroom door behind him, crossed the room, and removed the empty box from the nightstand. Setting the new one in its place, he turned to his wife.

"How are you, Di?"

Her eyes narrowed a bit more. "How do you think?"

"Right," he replied. Better to get out of there before something sharp ended up hurtling towards him at high velocity. "Call me if you need anything else. Or text, or whatever."

He was out the door faster than any husband in those Hallmark movies would have been. Maybe it wasn't the most romantic way to act towards his sick beloved, but she'd regret it later if she killed him in a cold-induced fury. Resigning himself to an afternoon of grading students' essays, he started for the stairs.

And made it down about three steps when the black rectangle in his pocket vibrated again.

**Need you again. -W**

Another groan. "Wednesday," he called down the hall, "why didn't you just tell me what you needed when I was in there ten seconds ago?"

When there was no reply- verbal or textual -Lucas started walking back towards their bedroom, muttering under his breath. He reached the doorway- and was promptly struck with a flying, used tissue.

_God, it's Doctor Who all over again._

"What was that for?"

The mound of blankets from which his wife's face was no longer visible shifted slightly. Indistinct mumbling came from the end nearest the pillow.

"What?" he said.

"For not staying." This was only slightly louder, but he was able to make it out. Walking closer to the bed, he raised an eyebrow.

"What do you mean?"

The blankets shifted and Wednesday poked her head out. Lucas was suddenly struck by how vulnerable she looked; sick, tired, and generally more like an abandoned kitten than he'd ever tell her to her face. It was disconcerting to see his Diana, normally so dangerous, looking so thoroughly normal.

"Lucas, I'm sick," she said hoarsely.

"I noticed," he replied.

"I'm sick, I'm cold, and I'm tired. All of these things are very irritating. And this whole time, you've been downstairs."

"Di," Lucas said, running a hand through his hair, "how can I be downstairs when you're texting me for something every five seconds?"

She coughed. "Downstairs, trying to get downstairs, close enough."

"Well, then where am I supposed to be?"

Looking away, Wednesday said quietly, "Here."

_Oh. Oh, damn._ He mentally kicked himself, but she wasn't done talking.

"Like I said, I'm sick, I'm cold, and I'm tired. And I need you."

He bent down slightly to look her in the eye. "But...I thought you wouldn't want me to see you like this."

"I don't. But-" Pausing, she frantically grabbed a tissue from the box just in time to catch an impressive sneeze. She wiped her nose, tossed the tissue into the trash can, and continued. "-I need you more than I need dignity right now."

_This is weird._ It was more like a scene from one of those movies than his life. Wednesday didn't do undignified; or at least, not that he'd ever witnessed. She was a warrior, an Addams, and-

_And a human,_ he thought. Though sometimes the fact got lost under their strangeness, his wife's family were humans at their core. Which meant Addamses needed to be taken care of sometimes, just like everyone else.

With that in mind, he smiled. "Then I'm not going anywhere."

Lucas walked around to the other side of the bed. Kicking off his shoes, he crawled under the thick comforter until he was lying next to Wednesday. Gently, he pulled her close.

"Get some rest, Di," he whispered, pushing her hair back from her flushed face. She sniffed, but the corners of her lips twitched upwards slightly. After giving him a light kiss, she closed here eyes. Her breathing gradually slowed to the steady, quiet rhythm of sleep; unconsciously, she snuggled against him.

He kissed the top of her head. "Still not going anywhere."

- ONE WEEK LATER -

**Di, I'm out of tissues again. -Love, Lucas.**


	21. Unnatural

**A/N:** Gleefully Wicked pointed out a plot hole in our headcanon. Since it was my fault, I retconned it. This is the result. I don't own Wednesday, but Nell, Erik, and Melanie are joint property of GW and I (and we take them very seriously).

* * *

><p>Erik Gomez Charles Addams-Beineke had stolen a bottle.<p>

It was a fairly nondescript bottle; tall and plastic, with a conical black top through which the red goop inside could be squeezed out. The fate of nations did not hang on this bottle. Neither could it save anyone's life, avert war, or cure some crippling disease. And yet, the little thief was hiding in a cabinet under the kitchen sink from the fate that awaited him when the bottle's owner caught up with him.

"Erik! You little rat; I am going to _pulverize _you!"

Which, judging by the sound of boots stomping down the stairs, wouldn't be long. If the 7-year-old had been religious, he'd have started making peace with his chosen deity. Instead, he just clutched his prize closer, smiled, and unknowingly knocked over a bottle of drain cleaner when he shifted his left leg.

A few minutes later, the cabinet door was flung open. Nell knelt down to face him, looking absolutely livid; the more his smile grew, the more her eyes narrowed.

"Give. It. Back," she said.

Erik tauntingly raised the bottle. "What, this?"

"Yes, that." She made a grab for it, only to have it snatched just out of reach.

"Nope," he crowed. "You'll just have to live without it. Too bad-" the little boy reached out to touch his sister's dark red curls - "I think your roots are showing."

Nell slapped his hand away. "Shut up." Another grab for the bottle, but in the tight confines of the cabinet, her much smaller brother had the advantage.

"Why do you use this stuff, anyway?" Erik asked, examining the hair dye. The 13-year-old rolled her eyes.

"Because my natural color is boring."

"Father has brown hair," the boy pointed out. He scooted deeper into the cabinet to avoid yet another attempt on her part to recapture the bottle.

"Yes, and so does half the population of the world or more. Ergo, it's boring," she replied.

"I don't even remember you with brown hair," he said with mock innocence. "Maybe you'd like it if you tried it again."

Nell finally grabbed his wrist. "Not going to happen. I like red and it suits me better. And considering I've been doing this since I was eight, that's not about to change." Without further conversation, she dragged Erik out of the cabinet. The bottle was snatched from his grasp, and he prepared to run- only to be stopped by an iron grip on his shoulder. He turned to see his sister eyeing the bottle thoughtfully.

"You know," she mused, "I wonder if this stuff would show up on black hair."

Erik glared at her. "You wouldn't."

"Oh, yes, I would. It's just a matter of tying you down securely- and maybe going to the drugstore to get some bleach." A devious smirk crept across her face. With Herculean effort that only another Addams could have managed, he broke her grip and raced up the stairs.

"I know where you sleep, maggot!" Nell shouted, just before the door to Erik's room slammed. She gave a satisfied chuckle and headed for the stairs- only to stop at the sound of footsteps on the creaking wood, this time coming down. It soon became apparent that the source of the noise was a middle-aged woman, with a little girl in tow.

"Mom?" Nell took in Wednesday's long-suffering expression. "What's wrong?"

"What have I told you about leaving your hair dye lying around?" the latter asked, her voice tense. Her daughter raised an eyebrow, and the plastic bottle.

"I got it back. Erik took it, but he didn't do anything with it; the level still looks about the same."

"Not that. Your 'emergency spare bottle'."

The four-year-old chose that moment to look up and smile at her sister, and Nell realized what her mother was talking about. Red dye streaked her otherwise pale face.

With a groan, the teenager bent down to her level. "Melanie, what did you _do_?"

"Finger-paint!" Melanie replied, proudly holding out her hands. The red palms made her look as if she'd just committed a gruesome murder. It became apparent to Nell upon closer examination that red dye was also splotched across the child's pink skirt, white t-shirt, and the ends of her blonde hair. It also became apparent that Wednesday was giving her a look that, had Nell not been her daughter, would have promised painful retribution.

"Um...I'm sorry?" she tried, getting to her feet.

Wednesday's frown didn't change. "I was going to punish you by banning hair dye from the house for a year-"

"Mom!"

"-_but_ your father and I have always given you three complete freedom of expression, and he talked me out of it."

Nell made a mental note to thank Lucas profusely the next time she saw him.

"So I've thought of something better," her mother continued.

"What?"

She pressed Melanie's tiny, red-stained hand into Nell's. "You get to clean her up."

As she walked away, leaving Nell to contemplate the ordeal ahead, quiet laughter echoed through the upstairs hall. The oldest Addams-Beineke child glanced up the stairs to see her brother sitting on the top step, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

"You know," he called down to her, "it would probably be easier for everyone if you just left your hair natural."

Nell sighed, got a better grip on Melanie's hand, and started up the stairs with her. "Shut up."

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** Before anyone asks, no, there will not be any story wherein Nell is a brunette. As all of you who've written OCs know, they have minds of their own, and Nell will stop dyeing her hair when pigs fly.


	22. Amid The Cold Of Winter

**A/N:** I'm writing this mostly because I like grabbing my readers' hearts and twisting them. Best read while listening to any version of the song "Since I Gave My Heart Away" from the movie Geppetto.

Title is from the Christmas carol "Lo, How A Rose E'er Blooming."

* * *

><p><em>Beep.<em>

It wasn't planned, none of it. Not even the pregnancy.

_Beep._

Most couples would have been hesitant to have another child with six-year-old twins already at home. But since financial strain hadn't presented even a moment of concern, Wednesday and Lucas were pleasantly surprised by the news.

_Beep._

And even more pleasantly surprised by the news that they were going to have a son. Not that there was anything wrong with girls; both parents loved their daughters more than they could say. Still, there was something to be said for variety. They'd picked a name, prepared the nursery, and settled down to wait. As the months passed, there had been intense speculation in the Addams-Beineke household about the new arrival. Which parent would he take after? How would he get along with his big sisters? Would they be good big sisters, period?

In all the wondering, nothing had prepared them for when Wednesday woke up in the middle of the night, two months before the due date, and said, "Something's wrong."

_Beep._

Everything from then on was a blur- the drive to the hospital, the delivery, their first moments with the tiny baby boy before he was taken to the neo-natal intensive care unit. After that, the world slowed down to a series of beeps.

_Beep_.

"Hi, Erik."

The little form shifted against the padded incubator mattress, turning toward his father's voice.

"Your mom wanted to come see you, but she's trying to sort out your middle names."

A small, wet cough.

"She was kind of groggy. Do you know what she let Daddy name you? Erik Gomez Charles Addams-Beineke." Lucas' throat suddenly felt strangely blocked. "That's- that's a big name for such a little guy, huh?"

He slipped his hand through one of the openings in the incubator wall and gently touched Erik's hand. The baby's fingers wrapped around his own with surprising strength- all six of them. In spite of himself, the young father couldn't help laughing a bit.

"You've got some extra fingers there. That would be Mom's fault, for two reasons. She's got the polydactyl genes- six toes on her left foot –and she wouldn't let them do surgery." He thought for a moment. "Actually, I wouldn't have, either. Too much risk for something that's just cosmetic. All twelve of your fingers are perfectly fine."

As if in agreement, Erik's grip tightened.

"You're strong, little guy. That's probably from your mom, too. She can break someone's arm with her bare hands if she's angry enough."

It was hard to believe this baby could break someone's arm. It was hard to believe he was grasping his father's finger with even the strength of a normal newborn. He was thinner than the average baby, something the doctors said was completely normal for children born premature. "Normal" was a word that had come up often in the week since he'd been born. Still, Lucas couldn't see anything normal about his son lying in a plastic box, hooked up to a heart monitor and with small tubes in his nose to help him breathe.

"They say you're almost definitely going to be fine, so don't worry, okay? Soon you'll be home with Mom and Daddy and your big sisters."

It was easy enough to say to Erik; easy enough for doctors to say to him and Wednesday. But hard, in practice, to put his faith in.

_Beep._

"What's wrong?"

"Ma'am, please calm down."

"Goddamnit, I will not calm down until you tell me what's wrong with my son!"

The doctor sighed heavily. "He has pneumonia. We're giving him antibiotics and some extra help breathing and he's going to be perfectly fine."

"You can say that for certain?" Wednesday asked. Having been intercepted by one of the more obstinate members of the NICU team just outside the door, she was in the kind of mood to inflict serious injury.

"Well, of course, nothing is 100% certain, Mrs. Beineke-"

"_Addams-_Beineke."

"Sorry. But I can tell you that Erik's chances of getting better far outweigh the opposite," she finished.

"That's the best you can do?"

"That's the best anyone can do. Don't worry about it, though."

"Easy for you to say," Wednesday replied tightly. "It's not your child."

_Beep._

It was December 24th, and Erik Gomez Charles Addams-Beineke was about to leave the NICU for the last time.

Things seemed vaguely unreal, as if time had temporarily stopped. This was what a month and a half of waiting had been leading up to. This was the result of all the doctors' work. Everyone had wept and prayed and spent sleepless nights wondering how it would all end- and now they knew.

Wednesday, who had always prided herself on being difficult to rattle, felt an insistent prickling at the corners of her eyes as she looked at the empty incubator. So many times, she'd gently touched a frail little hand or cheek through the holes, and she never would again. Time and again they'd told her that premature babies had weak lungs, susceptible to all kinds of problems, unable to even breathe on their own for long periods of time. Still, they'd said to have hope, and she had. Through all the fear, she had let herself believe Erik would be alright.

And now there was the plastic haven where he'd spent his first weeks, empty. Waiting for another parent's fear and hope.

"Di?"

If Lucas' voice had startled her, it didn't show. "Yes?"

"They've gotten him all clean and dressed." Judging by the slightly thick sound of his voice, he was holding back tears, too. "It's time."

Numb to the outside world, she followed him to the door. A nurse stood waiting, with a small bundle of blankets in his arms. As the parents approached, his face broke into a smile; he held out the bundle to Wednesday.

"He's all ready to go," the nurse said.

And, as if on cue, the blankets began to stir and make indistinct little noises. Wednesday and Lucas looked down at Erik's face, finally without plastic tubing taped down below his nose. His eyes were open and the same blue as his grandmother's, looking around inquisitively. Except for the extra fingers and a bit less baby fat than most infants, he hardly seemed like the same weak, birdlike newborn who'd entered the NICU a month and a half earlier.

When he smiled, Wednesday stopped trying to hold back and let the tears come. "Hi, Erik," she whispered. "I love you so much."

Lucas slipped an arm around her shoulders and stroked the baby's cheek with one finger. "And so do I."

The drive from the hospital to the renovated Victorian that the Addams-Beinekes called home took a little more than an hour, but that particular day, it felt like no time at all. Everything seemed new, like the couple was seeing through their son's eyes. Sunlight, a butterfly landing on the windshield, a spray of snow from a squirrel on a tree branch over the road- it was like the entire world had been created anew. And Erik made his gibberish opinion known about all of it.

"You're a talker, aren't you?" Lucas said, glancing over at his son when they stopped at a red light.

Wednesday smiled. "Like his uncle Pubert was. Maybe he'll develop a mustache."

"No offense, Di, but I always thought that was kind of weird."

She raised an eyebrow. "And weird things about my family surprise you because…?"

"They don't," he laughed. "Not anymore." The light turned, and they drove on, Wednesday becoming distracted when Erik began to fuss.

Finally, the car pulled into the driveway and Lucas switched off the engine. The house was oddly quiet, with none of the shouts or small explosions he'd come to expect from two half-Addams children. Nell and Mattie had been left in the care of a babysitter, as they usually were when their parents went to the hospital. Despite seeming pretty unflappable, Mandy Stewart was still a non-Addams, and there was every possibility that one zombie newt too many had sent her running. So it was with some trepidation that Lucas climbed the steps, unlocked the front door, and stepped inside.

He breathed a sigh of relief when he saw Mandy sitting on the old, red velvet sofa in the living room. The Christmas tree behind her and all the presents underneath were intact, and nothing seemed to be actively on fire. When she spotted him, the babysitter closed her battered copy of Return of the King and stood.

"Hi, Mr. Beineke. How'd everything go?" she asked, rubbing the bridge of her nose under her glasses. Lucas, for reasons he didn't entirely understand, burst out laughing.

"It…we…fine," he managed. "He's…with Wednesday."

Right on cue, the front door slammed and his wife walked into the room. Erik had started to cry; she bounced him gently in her arms, whispering to him under her breath. Mandy set the book down and rushed over.

"Oh my god, is that him? He's so bitty!" she gushed. It was a measure of Wednesday's sheer joy that she didn't glare at the teenager. Instead, she gave Mandy a rare smile.

"Well, he was born two months early, so that's to be expected."

Suddenly, what sounded like a small herd of elephants could be heard overhead racing towards the stairs. The footsteps grew nearer without diminishing in speed or volume, but voices could be heard as they approached the living room.

"Erik's home!"

"I wanna see him first!"

"Stop shoving!"

"You stop shoving!"

"Hey, that's _my_ stiletto! You took that out of my room!"

Two identical brunette girls burst into the living room. Well, one of them burst into the living room, skidding to a halt just before she collided with Lucas. The other slowed down in the hallway and walked in at a safer pace. Lucas grinned at them.

"Where were you two?" he said, crouching down slightly and gathering them both into a hug. "I expected you to be waiting to pounce the minute we got in the door."

"Babies are fragile," Mattie said, looking up at him with solemn brown eyes.

"And we want him to live long enough to play with us," Nell added.

Lucas stared at them in mock appraisal. "Can you be very calm and quiet?" he asked. Nell rolled her eyes; Mattie looked affronted.

"How old do you think we are, Dad?" Nell asked. "Of course we can."

He glanced up at Wednesday, who paused in her conversation with Mandy to regard her daughters. "What do you think, Di? Can they see him up close?"

She pretended to think it over, making a show of uncertainty before saying, as if it was being dragged out of her, "Well…alright."

Sitting down in her favorite leather wingback chair, she gestured for the girls to come closer. They stared at Erik, who met their gazes with curiosity. Slowly, Mattie reached out and touched the little, six-fingered hand sticking out of the blankets. Erik hesitated for a moment, then gripped her finger tightly. Nell gently stroked his thin, black hair.

"Merry Christmas, Erik," Wednesday said quietly.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** And happy winter holiday of choice to everyone.

(Nell has always been a twin. What are you talking about? Shhhhhhh. Don't question it.)


	23. Appearances

**A/N:** Writing this now before the AM and MD plot bunnies attack further. This is yet another oneshot that owes itself to a conversation between **Gleefully Wicked** and I. Also my love for putting our dear protagonists in uncomfortable situations.

Also, don't stop in the middle of the sidewalk in New York City. Locals and college students from Massachusetts will curse your name.

* * *

><p>What is fear?<p>

Most people would characterize it as a sort of racing-heart, sweaty-palms feeling, a desire to be anywhere else. In the clutches of fear, one often feels as if eating gum off the pavement would be preferable to whatever it is one's trying to do. Then again, everyone feels fear differently. And everyone fears different things. For some, it's spiders. For some, heights, fire, death, or clowns.

For still others, it's the prospect of articulating opinions regarding their personal appearance to a complete stranger.

And that was why Lucas Beineke found himself, on a beautiful Saturday afternoon in early November, dragging his girlfriend down a crowded Manhattan sidewalk. Which was not an easy proposition when the inhumanly strong girl seemed determined to fight him.

"Lucas!"

"Yes?"

"People are staring," she hissed between her teeth. Even from behind, she could practically feel him rolling his eyes.

"They wouldn't be staring if you weren't trying to dig your heels into the concrete," he said wearily. "Anyway, I thought you didn't care if people looked at you funny."

"I don't, but this is embarrassing!"

"It would be less embarrassing if you stopped freaking out," he replied. A moment later, to his surprise, the tension on his right arm vanished and she took a few jogging steps forward to walk beside him.

"There. Happy?" Staring at the sidewalk, she grimaced. "Anyway, I don't see why we even have to do this."

Lucas sighed. "Because you've been complaining for the last two days and I want you to be happy. And," he added as an afterthought, "you'd never have gotten up the courage on your own."

Her eyes snapped up to his. "What's _that_ supposed to mean?" she asked tightly, and Lucas knew he was skating on thin ice. Another man might have backed down. Then again, another man wouldn't have a garnet ring waiting for this girl in his sock drawer back home.

His voice remained level. "It means that different people get…overwhelmed by different things. Yours is human interaction."

"I'm talking to you, aren't I?" she said, raising an eyebrow. Lucas smiled at her and rubbed his thumb across the back of her hand.

"Yeah, but you're also madly in love with me."

In spite of herself, Wednesday felt the corners of her mouth rise. "Okay, you have a point there."

"But," she went on, "you're right. I wasn't going to do this on my own. Not because I'm 'overwhelmed' -" and here she shot him a pointed glance –"but because it would be easier to just let my hair grow out again."

"Are you saying you like it like this? After two days of texting me to complain?" Lucas asked dubiously. Wednesday sighed.

"No. I don't." One hand rose almost unconsciously to fiddle with the shoulder-length strands. Lucas couldn't lie- the style was boring and childish and didn't suit her at all. He would always think she was beautiful, but love didn't make you quite as blind as other poets liked to say. Besides, 48 hours of messages like, "Oh god, I look 12 years old" had made it clear that she agreed.

"With mother constantly going on about how she can't wait until it's long again and short hair has no romance, it just seemed like there'd be less hassle all around if I played along."

He stopped dead in the middle of the sidewalk, pulling her to a halt with him. Other pedestrians jostled around them; a few swore at the couple loudly. Wednesday, looking mortified, yanked her boyfriend closer to the brick wall of an office building and out of the flow of people.

"What are you doing? Could you _be _more Midwestern?" she said. "Besides, I thought you were in a hurry-"

"Do you actually want to grow your hair out, or is that your mother's decision?" he interrupted. "Because, and I could be wrong, you don't seem like the type to just roll over and do what she wants."

Wednesday's teeth worried her bottom lip slightly. For a few seconds, the only sounds were the traffic and pedestrian noise around them. Then, she took his hand again and started pulling him down the street.

"So you do want to do this?"

"Let's just say I'm curious," she called back.

* * *

><p>"Just go put the damn lipstick on your face," was not a sentence Lucas had ever planned on saying. Much less to his girlfriend. But now, sitting on an uncomfortable but eco-friendly reed chair in the stucco lobby of an upscale hair salon, it had become apparent that there was a first time for everything.<p>

Wednesday, for her part, stood in front of him with her face rapidly turning the same pink as the lipstick clutched in her fist. "No. This is stupid."

"It's the best way to determine your face shape," he protested. "You asked for my help, and I'm telling you that's the first step."

"Where did you even get this, anyway?" she said, brandishing the tube of Covergirl. "I don't wear lipstick."

"No," he said evenly, "you wear lip _stain_, that you put on with a brush and pretend isn't just lipstick you got at CVS and melted down to fit in those little pots."

"Hey!"

"Love, you're always beautiful, but I've seen you without makeup and your lips are not that dark naturally." He paused to scan another page of the _Sophisticate's Hairstyle Guide_ open on his lap. "That tube was left over from high school; I brought it with me in case I did any shows in college."

Rolling her eyes, she sat down heavily in the chair beside him. "Well, I'm not drawing on myself with it. You'll just have to give input without knowing my face shape."

Lucas heaved a sigh, but continued rifling through the magazine. After a while, the young woman picked up one of the other issues artfully arranged on the low teak table and began idly turning the pages. As both of them leafed through image after image of smiling celebrities and models with dramatic pouts, quiet Pan pipe music played over the salon's sound system and Lucas began to relax. Maybe this would be completely uneventful, and they could go out to lunch afterwards; maybe browse that bizarre antique store Wednesday loved. Maybe-

"Ahem." There it was again. That faint throat-clearing cough from the reception desk. Lucas looked up to see the receptionist, a tall, attractive blond man, smile and give an almost imperceptible jerk of the head. After a moment's pause, he set down his magazine and walked over.

"Sorry, were you trying to get my attention?"

The receptionist smiled. "Yeah. Listen, I just think it's really sweet that you're helping your friend. I mean…she seems kind of uptight."

"Sometimes, I guess. And she's my girlfriend," Lucas said, a hint of confusion creeping into his voice. Fortunately, the man seemed to understand.

"Oh right. _Girl_friend. Got it," he replied. And then gave a discreet wink before picking up the phone and beginning to dial.

Frowning, Lucas wandered back over to his chair. He sat down slowly, trying to figure out what about the man's demeanor had seemed odd. The wink had been out of place, but he couldn't quite put his finger on what was making him uncomfortable. This train of thought carried him through at least five minutes, during which he was dimly aware of Wednesday's voice, but not really paying enough attention to make out the words. Until,

"You know, this picture is interesting. Maybe I should get a pixie cut."

"What?" he said, a bit louder than intended. Wednesday smirked, flipping past a picture of Ginnifer Goodwin on the red carpet.

"Oh good; you're alive. I was starting to wonder," she said calmly. Lucas blinked.

"I mean, it's your choice, but I just don't think that-"

"Lucas," she interrupted. "I don't actually want to go that short. I was just trying to shock you. End of story." With that, she thumbed through the magazine to a page with a dog-eared corner. Then, leaving a finger between the pages to mark her place, she found another page, similarly marked.

She handed the magazine to him, pointing to specific pictures on each page. "I was thinking something like that or that. But I can't decide which."

Lucas looked at the pictures, then at her. Then back at the pictures. After repeating this process a few times, he finally shrugged.

"Personally, I think either one would look good. So it's really up to you." When she tried to smack him on the shoulder, he dodged expertly.

"You're not being very helpful."

"I know. I'm terrible like that," he said, waggling his eyebrows. Wednesday shook her head, smiling in spite of herself.

"I-"

But whatever she was going to say died as a middle-aged woman with a silver sweater and impeccable makeup emerged from behind a curtain. She glanced down at her clipboard. "Miss Addams?"

Wednesday stood, still clutching the magazine, and followed her back into the depths of the salon. And in the future, Lucas would always remember her departure as the moment when things got strange.

It started when he headed back to his chair, to wait and read Sartre for one of his classes. As he reached the waiting area, he heard a familiar, polite cough from behind him. Turning around, he saw the receptionist smiling.

"Hey, do I know you from somewhere?"

Lucas blinked. "Um. I don't think so. Unless- do you go to NYU?"

"No," the blond replied. "But you do? That's really cool. What's your major?"

And so, Lucas found himself standing at the shabby-chic desk (painstakingly distressed and probably more expensive than most of his living room furniture put together), chatting with the receptionist. Whose name, as it turned out, was Luke.

"Damn," Luke had laughed, "what a coincidence, huh?"

The conversation meandered through literature, Broadway musicals, and how Lucas liked living in New York. Luke seemed nice enough, but strangely eager. About an hour later, something clicked in Lucas' mind.

"Listen," he began, "I really hope I haven't given you the wrong idea, but-"

"Oh my god, Luke, there is some goth chick back there who desperately needs a personal shopper." A heavyset black man maybe ten years older than Lucas, emerged from behind the gold chiffon curtain, rubbing some kind of lotion into his hands. "I mean, she's pretty, but the girl's wearing a feed sack or- oh." He glanced up and noticed Lucas.

Luke shot him a pointed glance. "Maurice, this is Lucas. He's waiting for his…girlfriend."

"Hi," Lucas said, after a pause just long enough to be awkward. He gave Maurice a stiff wave.

"Girlfriend, huh?" The older man looked Lucas over a bit too slowly for comfort. A sly smile crept across his face.

"Um. Yeah. The, uh, goth chick." Wednesday would have hit him for using the g-word, but he had to admit it was accurate. Maurice looked worried.

"Oh, wow, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean- look, there's nothing wrong with the way your friend dresses," he said, sounding rather frantic.

"No, it's fine," Lucas said, running a hand through his hair. "You're allowed to have an opinion." But Maurice's next question made his mouth drop open.

"So, why are you pretending she's your girlfriend? Beard for your parents, or what?"

As he stood there, stammering, trying to find an acceptable response, the older man smiled broadly. "Come on, you can be honest. It's not like anyone here has anything to hide."

"Look," Lucas said, trying to look at anything but the man he was addressing, "I'm not gay. Sorry if I gave you the wrong impression, but Wednesday really _is_ my girlfriend. Honestly."

Luke stared at him. And kept staring. Time passed, and cold sweat began to break out on Lucas' neck. Finally, just when he was ready to bolt for the door and text Wednesday to meet him at the library, the receptionist spoke up.

"Not gay? You know the lipstick trick, man. You actually had lipstick in your pocket-"

"I brought that for her! It's old!" Lucas spluttered.

"-plus that scarf-"

"This?" The young poet tugged at the tastefully-patterned navy scarf around his neck. "It's cold outside!"

Luke raised an eyebrow. "Right. And a straight guy would have grabbed the first thing on the sale rack if he wanted a scarf."

"So I care how I look! That doesn't make me gay!"

"And finally, you were encouraging that girl to cut her hair," Luke concluded in a self-satisfied tone.

Lucas closed his eyes for a second and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Please," he finally said, "explain why that means I'm gay?"

"Oh, come on." Across the room, Maurice checked the drape of his shirt in a mosaic-lined mirror. "Straight men have this obsession with long hair. It's been scientifically proven."

Throwing up his hands, Lucas exclaimed, "I don't care! Honestly, I think she'd be gorgeous either way! It's her decision, and I respect that!"

When Luke and Maurice went quiet, he thought he'd finally gotten through to them. The lobby was, at last, silent except for the gentle bubbling of a small fountain. What he didn't see, as he sat back down, was the two salon employees exchanging a significant glance.

"Gay."

"So gay."

"No way a straight guy would ever say anything like that."

"What?!" Lucas shouted, slamming his book down. "What kind of asshole straight guys have you met?"

Luke ignored him, and leaned across the front desk with a smirk. "So, are you free on Saturday?"

He had tried, really. But it seemed being nice had failed, and his temper began to stir. This was turning into the time an ex-girlfriend had run into him at Schmackary's and refused to take no for an answer. He stood and started for the door.

"No, he's not," came a familiar voice from behind him. With a silent prayer of thanks, he turned, strode quickly towards the curtain, and grabbed Wednesday's hand.

"Come on; let's get out of here." He went for the door- only to stop as he found himself tugging on what might have been a block of granite.

"Lucas," Wednesday said with the air of one talking to a very small child, "I still have to pay."

"Oh. Right." He turned, face flushing.

"Well?" She spread her hands in front of her in a mock theatrical gesture. "What do you think?"

Her black hair was now chin-length and subtly angled, with sideswept bangs. It was obviously different from the long braids he'd grown used to over the two years they'd been together, but still very…well, Wednesday. Maybe even more so. And miles better than the immediate aftermath of her eighteenth birthday.

"I think you're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen," he said, and meant every word of it. Then, pulling her close, he pressed his lips to hers.

A few seconds later, she gently pushed him away. "Not complaining, but once again, I still have to pay."

"Right."

As she handed a credit card to Luke (who was still looking past her at Lucas with a slightly disappointed expression), he grabbed his coat from a peg on the wall. He did up the toggles on the front while trying to work out the best way to explain to her his bizarre encounter with Luke and Maurice. Finally, she walked over and slipped her arm through his.

"Ready to go?"

"Nah, I wanted to browse the organic, eco-friendly conditioner some more," he said. This elicited a rare laugh, and they headed out the door. As they walked down the street, Lucas stuck his hands in his pockets.

"So," he asked, "want to get something to eat? Or we could stop by that- oh, shit."

"What?" Wednesday's brow furrowed. "Lucas, what's wrong?"

He mutely pulled two slips of paper out of his pocket, handed them to her, and kept walking. She noticed with some alarm that he was shaking his head and muttering under his breath. And that the paper contained what looked like phone numbers.

Lucas calmly turned his face to the sky and shouted, "I'M NOT GAY!"

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **Well, he's not.


End file.
